On tour in Europe with Case Oats

Last year, Case Oats released one of our favorite debut albums: Last Missouri Exit. As editor Matt Mitchell wrote in their Best of What’s Next profile, “Casey Gomez Walker represents an exciting batch of songwriters sinking their teeth into big emotions and the loose, rambling twang of an ever-present Americana.” She’s a true disciple on David Berman and Kimya Dawson, and her most recent Case Oats single, “Bottom of an Afternoon,” is a “mantra for grief”—or, as Casey Epstein-Gross wrote, “feeling nauseous about asking God for answers and getting Theodore Roethke back in return.” Gomez Walker and her bandmates (Spencer Tweedy, Max Subar, and Jason Ashworth) recently returned from a tour in Europe, and they’ve kindly shared their daily trip highlights with Paste. Check out Case Oats’ camera roll and Gomez Walker’s commentary below.

May 27: Trondheim
After a mercifully late wake-up we crawl out of our hotel beds and march down the quiet Norwegian streets with our luggage and guitars. We are American clydesdales with all the noise we’re making on the cobblestone. We learn “utsolgt” means sold out. We have a lovely Thai dinner with Tor, the promoter of the venue, Bar Moskus. “Tor, like the hammer,” he says. Confused. Language barrier. The green room has a green toilet.

May 28: Bergen
We take a train to the airport and board a comfortable propeller plane to the city of Bergen. We land early and walk for sandwiches. The air is crisp and cool. I sleep three hours until soundcheck. I love The Victoria where we play. It’s a small well-lived-in room with couches and paintings on the wall. One man wears a cowboy hat and bolo tie and tells Max his only disappointment with the show was that no one else was dressed like him. We eat 7-Eleven hot dogs in the midnight moon.

May 29: Halden
A flight from Bergen to Oslo. Approaching the city, Henrik, who is driving us, tells us that the fort we see atop the hill is where the Swedish king was killed in 1718. We meet Freddy Holm, who will play lap steel and fiddle with us later that night. He’s a kind and gentle viking who plays steel like Duane Allman. We rehearse together at the beautiful Athletic Sound studio in town, where I’m told famous Norwegian records have been made. The crowd at Kaktus Festival is large and supportive. I lose myself for a minute while we play a new song. On stage, I think of what Neil Young said about playing with Buffalo Springfield: that he’d just close his eyes and go, and everyone else would be hoping the wheels don’t fall off. I close my eyes.

May 29: Halden
We had lunch at the Varberg Fort with Ben Kweller and his sweet band and family. I’ve been a fan of Ben since I was 11 years old and it’s crazy to be able to casually eat lunch together now and feel like old friends. We take a redeye flight from Oslo to London on RyanAir… Never again.

May 30: London & Bristol
On three hours of sleep we all wake up in a fog and drive from our airport hotel to the BBC. It feels like we’re in a dream being greeted by cheery English accents. I owe so many thanks to Cerys Matthews for spinning our record since the beginning and having us on for a live session. Post-session we drive to Bristol. Well, Spencer drives to Bristol as he is our trusted driver in Britain on the wrong side of the road. We play my favorite show of the run at The Louisiana. I promised myself I wouldn’t tell the audience we were operating on three hours of sleep, but they are so electric and we are so connected, I want to tell them about the delirious, sleepless high I’m feeling playing for them. I meet the Bristol legend, Big Jeff, at the merch table. God is in Bristol.

June 1: London
We’re back in London. Spencer is fighting off a migraine and the sleep deprivation from the day before is hitting us all. But we have a sold-out show at the Waiting Room, so we all eat burgers and have a couple drinks and get to it, like good rock n’ rollers.

At the beginning of the set dinner hits me and I get nauseous. I have a moment of panic imagining running through the tight, sweaty crowd to get to the bathroom. It passes quickly and I ask if anyone would be willing to pass up a club soda. One man escorts the bubbling glass to the stage without letting anyone touch it.

My darling younger cousin, Maya, is coincidentally in London and standing at the front of the stage. She and her friend dance wildly and I love her in a way you can only love family. When I sing about a postcard from my cousin in our recent song, “Bottom of an Afternoon,” I’m talking about one that Maya sent me from Paris on my 30th birthday.

June 2: Manchester
At a service stop on the side of the highway, we meet a puppy Jack Russell whose owner wore a tattered cowboy hat. He reminds me of our dog, Basil, when he was a baby, and I almost cry. Travel is catching up to us. Spencer and I have a cheeky pint and fish and chips at a pub called the Badger pre-show to lift our spirits. I try and eat less to avoid the during-show nausea but it’s hard when it’s all so good.

The band Wyatt opens for us with white-hot rock n’ roll. Afterward, we sit in the green room with them and discuss what American fast food is actually worth eating.

June 3: Glasgow
All tour, Spencer has been telling us the tale of an illustrious roadside restaurant called Tebay Services. On the way to Glasgow, we stop there and eat fresh cafeteria-style food. I marvel at the giant Jellycat display in the gift shop.

I spend the majority of the drive trying to prove my Scottish heritage to myself on Ancestry.com. I dream of the Walker clan in these sheep-laden hills but the fact of the matter is that the Walkers were Irish.

I love everything about Glasgow. The show has so much energy. I feel close to the guys on stage emotionally and musically. A stranger gives me a novel at the merch table. The guys and I try our best Scottish accents in the van on the way to our lodging—a trailer in a “holiday park.” None of us is particularly good at it.

June 3: Travel Day
The painful days. Eight hours of driving from Glasgow to London. A flight from London to Madrid. I stock up on medication we don’t have in the U.S. in the airport department store. We smile as much as we can and fall asleep on each other’s shoulders.

June 4: Madrid
Blanca, our lovely Spanish promoter , takes us out to lunch. We chat over tomatoes, potatoes, fish, and beef. I try my first tinto de verano—red wine and soda—and I’m sold.

Our first sold-out show in Spain is nothing I could have imagined. Everyone sings along and hollers and claps. I’m reminded of where I am. I think of myself as this small girl from Missouri and how somehow I am in Madrid, having an audience sing my own words back at me. It’s a fucking marvel. I drink it in.

June 5: Madrid
Blanca pulls some of her characteristic Blanca magic and gets us added to a festival happening in Madrid on our day off. We play a rocking outdoors-style set in the cavernous, smelly club and get gelato immediately afterward.

With the day still young, Jason, Spencer, and I lie in the park close to the venue and listen to the birds. Jason identifies them by their calls with an app on his phone. The blackbirds sound different in Europe.

We head back to the festival and watch Mujeres close out the night. They’re my new favorite band.

June 6: Barcelona
The venue we play in Barcelona is a hybrid guitar store, pedal factory, and venue. The audience is seated but they’re into it. For reasons only he knows, one guy wears a pool floaty, and I can’t look at him while we’re playing without laughing.

We play a new song about my ancestors coming from Spain to Puerto Rico. I tell the audience that my great-great-grandmother was from Barcelona. We sell out of records again (having restocked a few in London) and I’m sad because I hate to disappoint the Spanish.

Walking into our hotel, the slowest moving automatic door slams into my face because I’m being goofy with Jason and not watching where I walk. We get late-night shawarma and eat it at a playground. I collapse on a tire swing and the boys jump on a trampoline. I’m scared they will get stomach aches.

June 7: Valencia
Our hotel has a pool and I run to it the second we check in. I need to be submerged in water. It sets my brain right.

We play to a smaller audience and my stage banter doesn’t land as well, but they are sweet as ever. I try my hardest to only speak in Spanish at the merch table.

June 8: San Sebastian
We all wake up early to go swim in the ocean. I’ve never swam in the Mediterranean before and it feels crucial I do it. I watch the morning sun glitter off the water and listen to my best friends splash around. I collect flat rocks for my mom and red seashells for my bathroom.

On the road we stop at a strange trucker restaurant that has no menu, only a verbal list of specials. I am PMSing and the lack of clarity makes me upset. This is the newest thing to me on the road, learning how to deal with days where I would normally hole up in my room at home.

The boys eat fresh fish and I take myself out to sit near the fountain outside and regain my composure. Two older men look at me with my feet up and say, “Nada mal, ¿verdad?”

The last show of our run is full balls-to-the-wall. There’s not much gas left in the tank but we give it all and play a great set. At the hotel, a stray cat approaches us, and I feed her cheese slices we took from the green room.

June 9: Madrid
We end in Madrid. It only feels right. We hit three different restaurants for dinner to get every dish we want. Tinto de verano. Patatas bravas. Pintxos. More beer. We fall asleep in bunk beds stacked on top of each other in a hostel room. I can hear everyone’s breathing as we fall asleep.

The last night of a long sleepover with my best friends.

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