This, I think, is the best sad song on the face of the earth (...or rather, the best I've heard), and very probably one of the best, or at least most expressive performances as well. Really excellent stuff. I think it'd be impossible not be affected. Evocative and beautiful, pure and poetic without the pretentious bullshit. Enjoy!
And, if you did enjoy, I might also recommend Amsterdam (a place he really doesn't seem too fond of) and Le Moribond, which, coupled with the last two, makes me rather convinced that the beloved Brel had some very serious women issues. But then again, don't we all...(granted, some more than others). May none of us live the painful lives that alone can produce the gut-fire and hell-deep anguished songs of Jacques Brel! That said, I'm glad he did, because he made some damn good songs out of it.
P.S. the link to Amsterdam has English subtitles but gets cut off a bit short. Here's a link to a version with Russian subtitles but a fuller recording with the end and a few shots of the crowd. The music is great by itself, but the words are great too. Now you can have both!
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Friday, December 5, 2008
Once in a Lifetime
This has been one of my favorite songs for the last couple of weeks or so. Actually, it became one ever since I saw David Byrn perform it at a show at the Michigan Theater (in Ann Arbor, MI), complete with an all white-clad dance crew, brilliantly lighted set, much hip shaking, and the whole crowd dancing on their feet about a month ago. I can't help but smile every time I here it. 'Hope you enjoy.
"I Hate World Music" - by David Byrn
David Byrne: "I Hate World Music"
“I Hate World Music”
by David Byrne
The New York Times,
October 3, 1999
I hate world music. That’s probably one of the perverse reasons I have been asked to write about it. The term is a catchall that commonly refers to non-Western music of any and all sorts, popular music, traditional music and even classical music. It’s a marketing as well as a pseudomusical term — and a name for a bin in the record store signifying stuff that doesn’t belong anywhere else in the store. What’s in that bin ranges from the most blatantly commercial music produced by a country, like Hindi film music (the singer Asha Bhosle being the best well known example), to the ultra-sophisticated, super-cosmopolitan art-pop of Brazil (Caetano Veloso, Tom Zé, Carlinhos Brown); from the somewhat bizarre and surreal concept of a former Bulgarian state-run folkloric choir being arranged by classically trained, Soviet-era composers (Le Mystére des Voix Bulgares) to Norteño songs from Texas and northern Mexico glorifying the exploits of drug dealers (Los Tigres del Norte). Albums by Selena, Ricky Martin and Los Del Rio (the Macarena kings), artists who sell millions of records in the United States alone, are racked next to field recordings of Thai hill tribes. Equating apples and oranges indeed. So, from a purely democratic standpoint, one in which all music is equal, regardless of sales and slickness of production, this is a musical utopia.
So Why Am I Complaining?
In my experience, the use of the term world music is a way of dismissing artists or their music as irrelevant to one’s own life. It’s a way of relegating this “thing” into the realm of something exotic and therefore cute, weird but safe, because exotica is beautiful but irrelevant; they are, by definition, not like us. Maybe that’s why I hate the term. It groups everything and anything that isn’t “us” into “them.” This grouping is a convenient way of not seeing a band or artist as a creative individual, albeit from a culture somewhat different from that seen on American television. It’s a label for anything at all that is not sung in English or anything that doesn’t fit into the Anglo-Western pop universe this year. (So Ricky Martin is allowed out of the world music ghetto — for a while, anyway. Next year, who knows? If he makes a plena record, he might have to go back to the salsa bins and the Latin mom and pop record stores.) It’s a none too subtle way of reasserting the hegemony of Western pop culture. It ghettoizes most of the world’s music. A bold and audacious move, White Man!
There is some terrific music being made all over the world. In fact, there is more music, in sheer quantity, currently defined as world music, than any other kind. Not just kinds of music, but volume of recordings as well. When we talk about world music we find ourselves talking about 99 percent of the music on this planet. It would be strange to imagine, as many multinational corporations seem to, that Western pop holds the copyright on musical creativity.
No, the fact is, Western pop is the fast food of music, and there is more exciting creative music making going on outside the Western pop tradition than inside it. There is so much incredible noise happening that we’ll never exhaust it. For example, there are guitar bands in Africa that can be, if you let them, as inspiring and transporting as any kind of rock, pop, soul, funk or disco you grew up with. And what is exciting for me is that they have taken elements of global (Western?) music apart, examined the pieces to see what might be of use and then re-invented and reassembled the parts to their own ends. Thus creating something entirely new. (Femi Kuti gave a great show the other night that was part Coltrane, part James Brown and all African, just like his daddy, Fela Kuti, the great Nigerian musical mastermind.)
To restrict your listening to English-language pop is like deciding to eat the same meal for the rest of your life. The “no-surprise surprise,” as the Holiday Inn advertisement claims, is reassuring, I guess, but lacks kick. As ridiculous as they often sound, the conservative critics of rock-and-roll, and more recently of techno and rave, are not far off the mark. For at it’s best, music truly is subversive and dangerous. Thank the gods.
Hearing the right piece of music at the right time of your life can inspire a radical change, destructive personal behavior or even fascist politics. Sometimes all at the same time.
On the other hand, music can inspire love, religious ecstasy, cathartic release, social bonding and a glimpse of another dimension. A sense that there is another time, another space and another, better, universe. It can heal a broken heart, offer a shoulder to cry on and a friend when no one else understands. There are times when you want to be transported, to get your mind around some stuff it never encountered before. And what if the thing transporting you doesn’t come from your neighborhood?
Why Bother?
This interest in music not like that made in our own little villages (Dumbarton, Scotland, and Arbutus, Md., in my own case) is not, as it’s often claimed, cultural tourism, because once you’ve let something in, let it grab hold of you, you’re forever changed. Of course, you can also listen and remain completely unaffected and unmoved — like a tourist. Your loss. The fact is, after listening to some of this music for a while, it probably won’t seem exotic any more, even if you still don’t understand all the words. Thinking of things as exotic is only cool when it’s your sister, your co-worker or wife; it’s sometimes beneficial to exoticize that which has become overly familiar. But in other circumstances, viewing people and cultures as exotic is a distancing mechanism that too often allows for exploitation and racism.
Maybe it’s naive, but I would love to believe that once you grow to love some aspect of a culture — its music, for instance — you can never again think of the people of that culture as less than yourself. I would like to believe that if I am deeply moved by a song originating from some place other than my own hometown, then I have in some way shared an experience with the people of that culture. I have been pleasantly contaminated. I can identify in some small way with it and its people. Not that I will ever experience music exactly the same way as those who make it. I am not Hank Williams, or even Hank Jr., but I can still love his music and be moved by it. Doesn’t mean I have to live like him. Or take as many drugs as he did, or, for that matter, as much as the great flamenco singer Cameron de la Isla did.
That’s what art does; it communicates the vibe, the feeling, the attitude toward our lives, in a way that is personal and universal at the same time. And we don’t have to go through all the personal torment that the artist went through to get it. I would like to think that if you love a piece of music, how can you help but love, or at least respect, the producers of it? On the other hand, I know plenty of racists who love “soul” music, rap and rhthym-and-blues, so dream on, Dave.
The Myth of the Authentic
The issue of “authenticity” is such a weird can of worms. Westerners get obsessed with it. They agonize over which is the “true” music, the real deal. I question the authenticity of some of the new-age ethnofusion music that’s out there, but I also know that to rule out everything I personally abhor would be to rule out the possibility of a future miracle. Everybody knows the world has two types of music — my kind and everyone else’s. And even my kind ain’t always so great.
What is considered authentic today was probably some kind of bastard fusion a few years ago. An all-Japanese salsa orchestra’s record (Orquestra de la Luz) was No. 1 on the salsa charts in the United States not long ago. Did the New York salseros care? No, most loved the songs and were frankly amazed. African guitar bands were doing their level best to copy Cuban rumbas, and in their twisted failure thay came up with something new. So let’s not make any rules about who can make a specific style of music.
Mr. Juju himself, King Sunny Adé, name-checks the country and western crooner Jim Reeves as an influence. True. Rumor has it that the famous Balinese monkey chant was coordinated and choreographed by a German! The first South African pop record I bought was all tunes with American car race themes — the Indy 500 and the like. With sound effects, too! So let’s forget about this authenticity bugaboo. If you are transported by the music, then knowing that the creators had open ears can only add to the enjoyment.
White folks needed to see Leadbelly in prison garb to feel they were getting the real thing. They need to be assured that rappers are “keeping it real,” they need their Cuban musicians old and sweet, their Eastern and Asian artists “spiritual.” The myths and clichÚs of national and cultural traits flourish in the marketing of music. There is the myth of the untutored, innocent savant whose rhymes contain funky Zen-like pearls of wisdom — the myth that exotic “traditional” music is more honest, more soulful and more in touch with a people’s real and true feelings than the kid wearing jeans and the latest sports gear on Mexican television.
There is a perverse need to see foreign performers in their native dress rather than in the T-shirts and baggies that they usually wear off stage. We don’t want them looking too much like us, because then we assume that their music is calculated, marketed, impure. Heaven forbid they should be at least as aware of the larger world as we are. All of which might be true, but more important, their larger awareness might also be relevant to their music, which in turn might connect it to our own lives and situations. Heaven forbid.
La Nueva Generación
In the last couple of years, there have been any number of articles in newspapers and magazines about how Latin music in particular was finally going to become hugely popular in the U.S. of A. Half — yes, half — of the current top 10 singles in Britain, that hot and sweaty country, are sort of Latin, if you count Geri Halliwell’s “Mi Chico Latino,” and why not? The others are watered-down remakes of Perez Prado’s hits from the 50’s and 60’s. The Buena Vista Social Club record is the No. 1 selling record, in any category, in funky Germany. Les Nubians, a French-African group, is getting played on urban (translate as “black”) radio in America. So is this a trend or what? Are these more than summer novelty tunes for anglos? Are we really going to learn to dance, or is this some kind of aberration?
But what about the alterna-Latino bands that are touring the United States and Europe in increasing numbers. The Columbian band Bloque (which, I confess, is on my label) was named best band of the year by a Chicago critic; Los Fabulosos Cadillacs won a Grammy last year. Both bands, and many, many others, mix the grooves of their neighborhoods with the sounds and attitudes of the North American tunes they also grew up with. They are a generation with a double heritage, and their music expresses it.
It’s tough for this bunch to crack the American market: they’re not always cute, safe or exotic. Their music is often more innovative than that of their northern counterparts, which is intimidating. And as cool as they are, they insist on singing in their own language, to an audience that identifies completely with them, thereby making it more difficult to gain a foothold in the States.
These bands are the musical equivalent of a generation of Latin American writers, including Gabriel García Marquez, Isabel Allende, José Amado and Mario Vargas Llosa, that was referred to as the Boom. These musicians are defining their generation, finding a unique voice, and will influence countless others outside their home countries. Here, I believe, is where change will happen. Although they don’t sell very many records yet, these and others (for things analogous to this are happening everywhere, in Africa, in Morocco, in Turkey) will plant the seeds, and while I enjoy hearing Ricky Martin’s merengue on the radio, these others will change my life.
“I Hate World Music”
by David Byrne
The New York Times,
October 3, 1999
I hate world music. That’s probably one of the perverse reasons I have been asked to write about it. The term is a catchall that commonly refers to non-Western music of any and all sorts, popular music, traditional music and even classical music. It’s a marketing as well as a pseudomusical term — and a name for a bin in the record store signifying stuff that doesn’t belong anywhere else in the store. What’s in that bin ranges from the most blatantly commercial music produced by a country, like Hindi film music (the singer Asha Bhosle being the best well known example), to the ultra-sophisticated, super-cosmopolitan art-pop of Brazil (Caetano Veloso, Tom Zé, Carlinhos Brown); from the somewhat bizarre and surreal concept of a former Bulgarian state-run folkloric choir being arranged by classically trained, Soviet-era composers (Le Mystére des Voix Bulgares) to Norteño songs from Texas and northern Mexico glorifying the exploits of drug dealers (Los Tigres del Norte). Albums by Selena, Ricky Martin and Los Del Rio (the Macarena kings), artists who sell millions of records in the United States alone, are racked next to field recordings of Thai hill tribes. Equating apples and oranges indeed. So, from a purely democratic standpoint, one in which all music is equal, regardless of sales and slickness of production, this is a musical utopia.
So Why Am I Complaining?
In my experience, the use of the term world music is a way of dismissing artists or their music as irrelevant to one’s own life. It’s a way of relegating this “thing” into the realm of something exotic and therefore cute, weird but safe, because exotica is beautiful but irrelevant; they are, by definition, not like us. Maybe that’s why I hate the term. It groups everything and anything that isn’t “us” into “them.” This grouping is a convenient way of not seeing a band or artist as a creative individual, albeit from a culture somewhat different from that seen on American television. It’s a label for anything at all that is not sung in English or anything that doesn’t fit into the Anglo-Western pop universe this year. (So Ricky Martin is allowed out of the world music ghetto — for a while, anyway. Next year, who knows? If he makes a plena record, he might have to go back to the salsa bins and the Latin mom and pop record stores.) It’s a none too subtle way of reasserting the hegemony of Western pop culture. It ghettoizes most of the world’s music. A bold and audacious move, White Man!
There is some terrific music being made all over the world. In fact, there is more music, in sheer quantity, currently defined as world music, than any other kind. Not just kinds of music, but volume of recordings as well. When we talk about world music we find ourselves talking about 99 percent of the music on this planet. It would be strange to imagine, as many multinational corporations seem to, that Western pop holds the copyright on musical creativity.
No, the fact is, Western pop is the fast food of music, and there is more exciting creative music making going on outside the Western pop tradition than inside it. There is so much incredible noise happening that we’ll never exhaust it. For example, there are guitar bands in Africa that can be, if you let them, as inspiring and transporting as any kind of rock, pop, soul, funk or disco you grew up with. And what is exciting for me is that they have taken elements of global (Western?) music apart, examined the pieces to see what might be of use and then re-invented and reassembled the parts to their own ends. Thus creating something entirely new. (Femi Kuti gave a great show the other night that was part Coltrane, part James Brown and all African, just like his daddy, Fela Kuti, the great Nigerian musical mastermind.)
To restrict your listening to English-language pop is like deciding to eat the same meal for the rest of your life. The “no-surprise surprise,” as the Holiday Inn advertisement claims, is reassuring, I guess, but lacks kick. As ridiculous as they often sound, the conservative critics of rock-and-roll, and more recently of techno and rave, are not far off the mark. For at it’s best, music truly is subversive and dangerous. Thank the gods.
Hearing the right piece of music at the right time of your life can inspire a radical change, destructive personal behavior or even fascist politics. Sometimes all at the same time.
On the other hand, music can inspire love, religious ecstasy, cathartic release, social bonding and a glimpse of another dimension. A sense that there is another time, another space and another, better, universe. It can heal a broken heart, offer a shoulder to cry on and a friend when no one else understands. There are times when you want to be transported, to get your mind around some stuff it never encountered before. And what if the thing transporting you doesn’t come from your neighborhood?
Why Bother?
This interest in music not like that made in our own little villages (Dumbarton, Scotland, and Arbutus, Md., in my own case) is not, as it’s often claimed, cultural tourism, because once you’ve let something in, let it grab hold of you, you’re forever changed. Of course, you can also listen and remain completely unaffected and unmoved — like a tourist. Your loss. The fact is, after listening to some of this music for a while, it probably won’t seem exotic any more, even if you still don’t understand all the words. Thinking of things as exotic is only cool when it’s your sister, your co-worker or wife; it’s sometimes beneficial to exoticize that which has become overly familiar. But in other circumstances, viewing people and cultures as exotic is a distancing mechanism that too often allows for exploitation and racism.
Maybe it’s naive, but I would love to believe that once you grow to love some aspect of a culture — its music, for instance — you can never again think of the people of that culture as less than yourself. I would like to believe that if I am deeply moved by a song originating from some place other than my own hometown, then I have in some way shared an experience with the people of that culture. I have been pleasantly contaminated. I can identify in some small way with it and its people. Not that I will ever experience music exactly the same way as those who make it. I am not Hank Williams, or even Hank Jr., but I can still love his music and be moved by it. Doesn’t mean I have to live like him. Or take as many drugs as he did, or, for that matter, as much as the great flamenco singer Cameron de la Isla did.
That’s what art does; it communicates the vibe, the feeling, the attitude toward our lives, in a way that is personal and universal at the same time. And we don’t have to go through all the personal torment that the artist went through to get it. I would like to think that if you love a piece of music, how can you help but love, or at least respect, the producers of it? On the other hand, I know plenty of racists who love “soul” music, rap and rhthym-and-blues, so dream on, Dave.
The Myth of the Authentic
The issue of “authenticity” is such a weird can of worms. Westerners get obsessed with it. They agonize over which is the “true” music, the real deal. I question the authenticity of some of the new-age ethnofusion music that’s out there, but I also know that to rule out everything I personally abhor would be to rule out the possibility of a future miracle. Everybody knows the world has two types of music — my kind and everyone else’s. And even my kind ain’t always so great.
What is considered authentic today was probably some kind of bastard fusion a few years ago. An all-Japanese salsa orchestra’s record (Orquestra de la Luz) was No. 1 on the salsa charts in the United States not long ago. Did the New York salseros care? No, most loved the songs and were frankly amazed. African guitar bands were doing their level best to copy Cuban rumbas, and in their twisted failure thay came up with something new. So let’s not make any rules about who can make a specific style of music.
Mr. Juju himself, King Sunny Adé, name-checks the country and western crooner Jim Reeves as an influence. True. Rumor has it that the famous Balinese monkey chant was coordinated and choreographed by a German! The first South African pop record I bought was all tunes with American car race themes — the Indy 500 and the like. With sound effects, too! So let’s forget about this authenticity bugaboo. If you are transported by the music, then knowing that the creators had open ears can only add to the enjoyment.
White folks needed to see Leadbelly in prison garb to feel they were getting the real thing. They need to be assured that rappers are “keeping it real,” they need their Cuban musicians old and sweet, their Eastern and Asian artists “spiritual.” The myths and clichÚs of national and cultural traits flourish in the marketing of music. There is the myth of the untutored, innocent savant whose rhymes contain funky Zen-like pearls of wisdom — the myth that exotic “traditional” music is more honest, more soulful and more in touch with a people’s real and true feelings than the kid wearing jeans and the latest sports gear on Mexican television.
There is a perverse need to see foreign performers in their native dress rather than in the T-shirts and baggies that they usually wear off stage. We don’t want them looking too much like us, because then we assume that their music is calculated, marketed, impure. Heaven forbid they should be at least as aware of the larger world as we are. All of which might be true, but more important, their larger awareness might also be relevant to their music, which in turn might connect it to our own lives and situations. Heaven forbid.
La Nueva Generación
In the last couple of years, there have been any number of articles in newspapers and magazines about how Latin music in particular was finally going to become hugely popular in the U.S. of A. Half — yes, half — of the current top 10 singles in Britain, that hot and sweaty country, are sort of Latin, if you count Geri Halliwell’s “Mi Chico Latino,” and why not? The others are watered-down remakes of Perez Prado’s hits from the 50’s and 60’s. The Buena Vista Social Club record is the No. 1 selling record, in any category, in funky Germany. Les Nubians, a French-African group, is getting played on urban (translate as “black”) radio in America. So is this a trend or what? Are these more than summer novelty tunes for anglos? Are we really going to learn to dance, or is this some kind of aberration?
But what about the alterna-Latino bands that are touring the United States and Europe in increasing numbers. The Columbian band Bloque (which, I confess, is on my label) was named best band of the year by a Chicago critic; Los Fabulosos Cadillacs won a Grammy last year. Both bands, and many, many others, mix the grooves of their neighborhoods with the sounds and attitudes of the North American tunes they also grew up with. They are a generation with a double heritage, and their music expresses it.
It’s tough for this bunch to crack the American market: they’re not always cute, safe or exotic. Their music is often more innovative than that of their northern counterparts, which is intimidating. And as cool as they are, they insist on singing in their own language, to an audience that identifies completely with them, thereby making it more difficult to gain a foothold in the States.
These bands are the musical equivalent of a generation of Latin American writers, including Gabriel García Marquez, Isabel Allende, José Amado and Mario Vargas Llosa, that was referred to as the Boom. These musicians are defining their generation, finding a unique voice, and will influence countless others outside their home countries. Here, I believe, is where change will happen. Although they don’t sell very many records yet, these and others (for things analogous to this are happening everywhere, in Africa, in Morocco, in Turkey) will plant the seeds, and while I enjoy hearing Ricky Martin’s merengue on the radio, these others will change my life.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Voting Problems
I just voted at the University of Michigan - South Quad Polling station in Ann Arbor, Michigan and there seem to be problems with the tally machine (i.e. it's not counting votes). Upon inserting my filled-out ballot into the machine (I think it was an optical-scan machine made by Sequoia Voting Systems), the number listed at the bottom (the tally) did not change. Moreover, it was 99 lower than the number on my ballot, which seems problematic, since I saw the table where they were handing out ballots and the ballots are handed out in numerical order (the person next to me got 368 while I got 369). I brought these issues to the attention of the poll worker, who looked flustered, paced nervously for a moment, and then dismissed me with a totally unreassuring smile, saying, "We'll figure it out." What does that mean? Who's going to figure it out? Not her, I suspect. 15 minutes after I left, a friend of mine stopped me in the library. She'd just come from the same polling station, though I hadn't seen her because she was further back in line. She said they were now having a huge discussion at the station and that there were apparently problems with the machines not counting votes and I relayed my experience.
I've waited a very long time to be able to cast this vote. To say I'd be disappointed if my vote didn't get counted would be a grave understatement. I have very little faith in the adequacy of our system and the integrity of those involved in putting together the finer details and making sure it runs smoothly.
I've waited a very long time to be able to cast this vote. To say I'd be disappointed if my vote didn't get counted would be a grave understatement. I have very little faith in the adequacy of our system and the integrity of those involved in putting together the finer details and making sure it runs smoothly.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Homeward Bound
I'm in Dublin now, come back from the Cairngorm Scottland Highlands. The most mystical spot on this round earth, that I've seen anyway. Tomorrow I head to Shannon at dawn to catch my plane back to the states.
All things must come to an end. This past year has been the biggest and most fulfilling adventure of my life to date. I have learned about love and self, seen foreign lands, spoken strange languages, read the lines on thousands of faces, taken risks, made mistakes--so many wonderfully hard and beautiful mistakes--learned that mistakes aren't the end but junctions where we are allowed to choose how we go forward. I've walked along rivers and taken deep gulps from cold streams and burns (pronounced Byurns), run naked across Scottish mountainscapes with nothing but a pack on my back and mud under my feet, bog mud, and even there, in the muck, the blooming heather manages to penetrate and sweeten the air. I've discovered the bothy, made so many fruitful connections with other humans it will take time to process. I spent Christmas on a carfree and carefree Greek isle where the water was clearer than , went the way of the Berber through the largest desert in the world, drove along expansive beaches, tread over trillions of grains of sand, and spelunked through caves leading to what I can only describe as ecstasy. I have sat at a desk at 6 p.m., in a room that looks like a prison cell, trying to write, and been inspired by the nearby sound of 900 year-old cathedral bells clanging in the heavy evening air, bouncing down the ancient curving streets, across the Plaza Nueva, off the proud buildings and into my bedroom window. I have seen and heard and felt and smelled so many things. Wonderful things. Life-changing things. Awesome things. The people I have met, however, and the relationships forged, are what have made this trip most memorable.
The first thing that happened to me upon arriving in Scotland was a theft. They've stolen my camera. It was my fault. The one time I turned my back on that thing which I've protected with a paranoia probably diagnosable, an opportunist was there waiting, and when I returned, it was gone. Climbing the William Wallace monument in Aberdeen with Carson seemed a fantastic idea, and it was. We had all of our stuff--rucksacks, backpack, and my camera bag. When I left our gear at the bottom, a thought flashed through my head--probably not a good idea--but for whatever reason, this time I dismissed that shrill voice. There were people sitting on the bench, watching us, it was the middle of a beautiful, green and blue, sunny the day. We were standing 4 meters above our stuff. The view was beautiful. The swath of perfectly maintained green grass below, with people strewn about enjoying the warm weather; the spire of the 2nd largest granite building (that of Marshall College) in the world, dominating the skyline. Stunning. I'm not sure if it was as stunning as clambering down that large block of stone and bronze to find myself one bag short. I came down to take a picture of Carson's massive, cat-like frame managing Wallace. It wasn't to be.
We were going to the mountains. We made a detour to the police department to report the theft. I was at once frantic and strangely at ease. My camera had been stolen. My camera had been stolen. I said those words out loud and silently to myself. That was it. My camera had been stolen and I was going to the mountains. Alex has pointed out on a pair of occasions what she sees as my invincible, "it can't happen to me" attitude. It happened to me. Oh the irony of having protected it with my life the entire trip, only to have it taken at the very end. No tears have been shed, there is no anger--frustration with myself and some regret--though my heart clenches when I think of the dollars that bag contained, and my Spanish cell phone, with all of my friends' numbers. The truth is, it was liberating. I have never lived more in-the-moment, at any point in my life. Nor do I think I've created such strong and detailed mental images since I allowed myself to become obsessed with documenting every important experience in my life by standing behind that heavy black object. I wish my decision to give up photography for a while had been more voluntary, but I think that ultimately, this experience, more than some others, has taught me and led me, quite forcefully, to another junction. I think I will stick with writing for now and give myself a break from being the camera guy. It had become a bit of a burden, a mild obsession, and a source of constant frustration ("They're not GOOD enough!") Now there is nothing to do but live, and live I will. I'm so ready to come home. I thought it would be terrible, soul crushing. No so. Not so at all. I miss everyone very much and can't wait to see your faces and hear your voices again. Get ready, home, I'm coming.
-The luckiest guy in the world.
All things must come to an end. This past year has been the biggest and most fulfilling adventure of my life to date. I have learned about love and self, seen foreign lands, spoken strange languages, read the lines on thousands of faces, taken risks, made mistakes--so many wonderfully hard and beautiful mistakes--learned that mistakes aren't the end but junctions where we are allowed to choose how we go forward. I've walked along rivers and taken deep gulps from cold streams and burns (pronounced Byurns), run naked across Scottish mountainscapes with nothing but a pack on my back and mud under my feet, bog mud, and even there, in the muck, the blooming heather manages to penetrate and sweeten the air. I've discovered the bothy, made so many fruitful connections with other humans it will take time to process. I spent Christmas on a carfree and carefree Greek isle where the water was clearer than , went the way of the Berber through the largest desert in the world, drove along expansive beaches, tread over trillions of grains of sand, and spelunked through caves leading to what I can only describe as ecstasy. I have sat at a desk at 6 p.m., in a room that looks like a prison cell, trying to write, and been inspired by the nearby sound of 900 year-old cathedral bells clanging in the heavy evening air, bouncing down the ancient curving streets, across the Plaza Nueva, off the proud buildings and into my bedroom window. I have seen and heard and felt and smelled so many things. Wonderful things. Life-changing things. Awesome things. The people I have met, however, and the relationships forged, are what have made this trip most memorable.
The first thing that happened to me upon arriving in Scotland was a theft. They've stolen my camera. It was my fault. The one time I turned my back on that thing which I've protected with a paranoia probably diagnosable, an opportunist was there waiting, and when I returned, it was gone. Climbing the William Wallace monument in Aberdeen with Carson seemed a fantastic idea, and it was. We had all of our stuff--rucksacks, backpack, and my camera bag. When I left our gear at the bottom, a thought flashed through my head--probably not a good idea--but for whatever reason, this time I dismissed that shrill voice. There were people sitting on the bench, watching us, it was the middle of a beautiful, green and blue, sunny the day. We were standing 4 meters above our stuff. The view was beautiful. The swath of perfectly maintained green grass below, with people strewn about enjoying the warm weather; the spire of the 2nd largest granite building (that of Marshall College) in the world, dominating the skyline. Stunning. I'm not sure if it was as stunning as clambering down that large block of stone and bronze to find myself one bag short. I came down to take a picture of Carson's massive, cat-like frame managing Wallace. It wasn't to be.
We were going to the mountains. We made a detour to the police department to report the theft. I was at once frantic and strangely at ease. My camera had been stolen. My camera had been stolen. I said those words out loud and silently to myself. That was it. My camera had been stolen and I was going to the mountains. Alex has pointed out on a pair of occasions what she sees as my invincible, "it can't happen to me" attitude. It happened to me. Oh the irony of having protected it with my life the entire trip, only to have it taken at the very end. No tears have been shed, there is no anger--frustration with myself and some regret--though my heart clenches when I think of the dollars that bag contained, and my Spanish cell phone, with all of my friends' numbers. The truth is, it was liberating. I have never lived more in-the-moment, at any point in my life. Nor do I think I've created such strong and detailed mental images since I allowed myself to become obsessed with documenting every important experience in my life by standing behind that heavy black object. I wish my decision to give up photography for a while had been more voluntary, but I think that ultimately, this experience, more than some others, has taught me and led me, quite forcefully, to another junction. I think I will stick with writing for now and give myself a break from being the camera guy. It had become a bit of a burden, a mild obsession, and a source of constant frustration ("They're not GOOD enough!") Now there is nothing to do but live, and live I will. I'm so ready to come home. I thought it would be terrible, soul crushing. No so. Not so at all. I miss everyone very much and can't wait to see your faces and hear your voices again. Get ready, home, I'm coming.
-The luckiest guy in the world.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Frankfurt, do you know?
Jesus Christ. They said it was sketch, but how could a neighborhood change so much in 400 meters? My heart is still pounding in my throat and my lungs feel like they’re full of helium. KaiserstraBe is the main street that leads out of the Frankfurt train station. It is the home of Frankfurt Hostel. MoselstraBe is the first street branching off from it. I left the hip comfort of Frankfurt Hostel, which was perfect, but full, and turned the corner in search of Easy Bed24, on Mosel, a name that is in no way explicitly or otherwise referring to beds for sex or shady business. The internet reviews said it’s in the middle of the red light district, populated by drug addicts, hookers, and people with hollow eyes. But Frankfurt hostel too, which is both safe and clean and a block away, is flanked by Wos, World of Sex, and a porno shop, so I was certain these reviewers were exaggerating or not aware of the alternatives. But I was wrong. I just saw my first bloody heroin arm, raised blue vein, faced cringed in pain, long raggedy hair under a blue baseball cap and missing teeth. He was kneeling on the sidewalk next to a car and the tainted blood trickled down to his wrist as the fire shot into the mainline. Oh my god. Next to him was a youngish woman in black bending down at a ledge near street level, looking through her purse, "for her phone," I thought. Then I saw the silver crack pipe resting on the concrete ledge. She was so young and so fair. She could have been anyone. She was someone. This is a world of pain and misery, horror, goosepimpled skin and handshake transactions. That’s how the money and the drugs are traded, I've seen it, through the handshake. But who trades in the lives and the bent faces? Who keeps that business running strong? I moved from the sidewalk and into the street. I wanted to cry. I can see them from out my bedroom window now. They stand in a diffused group and are very heterogenous. People from all walks, ages, skin colors, levels of attractiveness, life stories. I want to talk to them, to hear there stories, but I don’t think I will. I will just stand here and watch the bulging, bloodshot eyes, the smiles turn to grimaces, and the fast-action transactions in money, drugs and hungry faces that is life in the little community on Mosel Street. It is 1:56 p.m.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
The boy writes an update!
So I'm feeling exhausted again and furious with myself. I just made a huge mistake, wasted an entire day, and lost 70 euros on an overnight train that I was unable to make because of my mistake (a confusion of days, times and numbers). I want to tear my hair out. I had an extra day at San Fermin, but one was sufficient. I didn't want to be there. Turns out, I wasn't supposed to be. My train left without me and now I'm stuck for the night in Barcelona, exhausted and did I mention pissed off? It sucks when you don't have anyone else but yourself to blame for an unideal situation. But it's something that should be done, when that's the case. The first thing that happened in Pamplona was that I lost or somebody stole my European resident card, so now I look like an illegal holder of an interail pass (for EU residents only) and I'm about to head into France, that country famous for it's American sympathies. Okay, I should go take care of business instead of procrastinating by writing in the blog. Wish me luck.
So I'm feeling exhausted again and furious with myself. I just made a huge mistake, wasted an entire day, and lost 70 euros on an overnight train that I was unable to make because of my mistake (a confusion of days, times and numbers). I want to tear my hair out. I had an extra day at San Fermin, but one was sufficient. I didn't want to be there. Turns out, I wasn't supposed to be. My train left without me and now I'm stuck for the night in Barcelona, exhausted and did I mention pissed off? It sucks when you don't have anyone else but yourself to blame for an unideal situation. But it's something that should be done, when that's the case. The first thing that happened in Pamplona was that I lost or somebody stole my European resident card, so now I look like an illegal holder of an interail pass (for EU residents only) and I'm about to head into France, that country famous for it's American sympathies. Okay, I should go take care of business instead of procrastinating by writing in the blog. Wish me luck.
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