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| April 2004 »
Last night's show in Gijon went perfectly — a beautiful slow beginning and a gradual ramping up to full speed. It was a semi-baroque old theater in the center of town, not far form the port.
In the morning I went for my second recent run since the lower back problems that plagued me the first few days of the tour have eased up. Yesterday in Pau and today in Gijon, I've been running down around the peninsula that juts out from the port and downtown beaches.
I head back there later for lunch in a little bar with sawdust, sea urchin shells, and cigarette butts littering the floor. I order sidra, the local dry cider, which is poured from a great height in small portions to aerate every few mouthfuls. I have it with chipirones, the little squids, and a chunk of deeply blue cheese, which I notice my bar neighbors eating.
The walls are decorated with pictures of football stars, the local craggy mountain range, a voluptuous lady in a blue dress holding a ball, a framed "biography of a sardine" and panoramic shots of the harbour. The clients smoke furiously and range from a family at one long table to an old geezer alone at another.
A young couple from Madrid enters and recognizes me, and asks for a photo. No one is watching the car racing on TV.
That night we add "Si Fulano" to the set, the song I did with Peret, the flamenco rock singer from Barcelona. He had hits in the 70s and was considered the Elvis of Spain, mainly due to the bad movies he did. The audience recognizes it as soon as the verse starts, and they cheer, so I guess it was a good decision to learn it.
I'm reading an advance copy of Lawrence Weschler's book of essays, Vermeer in Bosnia. The title essay is a meditation on Vermeer's beautiful pictures and the violent turbulent age they came out of. The museum is in the Hague, where the war crime tribunals are held, hence the connection. It is proposed that what his images were doing was "inventing peace." They proposed the possibility of a better, more beautiful world; by putting the visible possibility of such an alternative world right in front of us, we might imagine it, conceive it, and consider it a possibility.
I wonder if that's what we all do with music as well. Music, some of it, proposes a world that functions differently than the one we've been experiencing; it proposes possibilities, plants the seed of something that could exist but was not previously in the imagination's vocabulary.
Our show is in a lovely theater in the old part of town. During the afternoon I decide to cycle around. I go up to a church perched way up on a hill overlooking the old harbor. It's a steep climb, so I'm drenched in sweat when I arrive. The church is not that old, but hanging from the ceiling at various intervals are long wires strung with model boats — sailing ships, little freighters and fishing vessels — and one seaplane model. The virgin here is the protectress of those at sea, so another wall is filled with lots and lots of paintings of ships in distress, some being wrecked and some just being tossed about in terrible weather.
An impressive assembly.
Against all.
(Herald Tribune) A Russian town 500 km from Moscow has twice voted "against all," which is a kind of "none of the above" option that exists on the Russian ballots. The townspeople turned up in high numbers but didn't think very highly of any of the candidates, so they exercised their option to not have any of them.
There was a rematch, and they did the same thing again. One woman said "they've just got to give us better options"
A man said "it's easier to get on the ballot than to get a driver's license."
The candidates were some local "businessmen" and former Communist party apparatchiks. The economics of touring.
I self-censor my imagination, depending on the specific economic situation. I do not even entertain thoughts of including projections, lighting, mise-en-scène, etc., as part of my touring show when I know there is no budget.
Granted, I know I am going to tour with this 10-piece band — pretty much or else. I sense that I feel this is the way to express and represent what I do now and some other version would just be inaccurate. Luckily, my experience from the last tour tells me that financially this musical situation is possible. Tight sometimes, but possible.
Now, with the prospect of increased income in the North American legs I can conceivably entertain thoughts of an LD [lighting designer] or some visual business. But what? I haven't done anything except costumes for so long that my imagination in that area is atrophied. One thought is to begin the show with a comedy Powerpoint routine.
Economically, my tour is perhaps middle-level. I can afford this fairly large band or decently paid musicians and a crew, though on this leg there is no money for any lighting or stage business. On arena or stadium tours, the band flies, or even has their own chartered plane. Smaller tours are either one bus or a van with the band and a minimal crew driving themselves. We generally leave each theater and board our busses — one for band and one for crew — and then chat, hang out, have a drink, and then some of us watch a movie in the bus lounge and others sleep in their bunks.
I am usually one of the latter. The bunks, 12 of them stacked in two levels, are carpet-lined with little mattresses, a comforter, and a couple of air vents to allow fresh air to enter the claustrophobic capsules. Curtains give some privacy, so, with my earplugs in, I generally sleep pretty soundly (though this past week I've had a hacking chest cough that often wakes me in the middle of the night). There is just enough room in these things to turn on the light above one's head and crook one's neck against a pillow and read, but beyond that there is no room to move. It's a bit of a contortion getting into them, especially when exhausted after a show and a few drinks, but we’re used to it.
This all saves money on hotels, and it allows us some hours in each town before the soundcheck — hours the crew uses to set up. I usually check e-mails, have lunch, and either go for a run or bike ride.
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.
Met up with Sergio, whose English is less than perfect, but better than my Italian.
We went to look at the proposed future art space here in Reggio Emilio, which was a former clothing store, or a factory, located on the edge of town. (Sergio has a foundation that wants to present a show of my art.) The town is small, 10,000 people.
The proposed space is a warehouse-type building in a nondescript part of town, set back from the street by a small vacant lot, now mostly rubble, with some patches of grass trying to grow. A few cars are parked near the entrance doors, in no particular place, like they stopped and got out without actually parking.
Across the street there is a small football field, and, as it's Saturday, the local boys are playing in their nylon uniforms.
The building is "in remont," as they say in Russia - still being renovated. Sergio said the pace of renovations has slowed because my show was postponed. The outside is of old funky yellowing stucco with bits of graffiti on some portions.
Inside there are large white spaces. First there is a large foyer type space - to be a bookstore, they said - a series of smaller rooms open off of this, and further on, behind an octagonal glass-enclosed skylight atrium, there was a fairly large room for the main exhibitions. Off to the side of the "bookstore" is a room with a new wood floor. It will be a bar, they said.
He said we have a jpeg of the floor plan. I took some pictures of the rooms.
No foot traffic would pass through this part of town at all. The town itself is pretty ugly, mostly buildings from the 60s, I guess - boxy stucco and concrete apartments and shops. Sergio says that it is a wealthy town. Maybe the wealth lies outside. The town square has a museum with what I suspect are plaster casts of Roman statues along the top, and a Romanesque style (but not era) church on the other side. The other 2 sides are mostly shops and ice cream parlors. The punky kids hang outside shop windows displaying elegant suits and dresses.
Sergio said, "you are disappointed by the space?" (I guess he could tell.) "The space in Parma was much better," he continued. "A historical building" (Was that supposed to make me feel better or worse?)
He said the first show here will be in May, of local artists, I think, something to do with suburbanism. Then there will be a show of Sol Le Witt and Robert Morris in June or July. Then, later, Dennis Oppenheim.
Another tour begins. I feel like it's a roller coaster that I've stepped on. It will go almost non-stop till mid-September, then possibly continue in South America and Asia after that. All likelihood of personal relationships during this time will vanish. My private life will be just that: private, interior, singular. There will be no time for lovers, friendships and that whole side of living, aside from the social life with the band and friends I visit in the towns and countries we pass through.
However, the music and show holds the promise of heartfelt expression, beauty, pleasure, and fun.
We managed to get enough rehearsals in for our showcase shows at Joe's Pub before leaving NY. Just barely. The first show was just OK and the second one felt great. Loose and heartfelt. Started with all the strings on stage with the opera tune and ended with a version of the Talking Heads songs "I Zimbra" and "Blind", also with strings. I was relaxed enough at the second show that I got chills and had fun, so that was really good, eh?
We wore the jumpsuits I had made — blue for the strings, brown for the band, and a gray one for me. The idea is sort of slightly elegant but they're still uniforms. They definitely work for the girls, but Ford says the guys don't look very sexy as the legs are floppy and the waists are kinda high. Uh-oh.
Mauro's Forro in the Dark record is supposed to be done today but the manufacturer is late. They're celebrating at Nublu anyway, so I head over briefly after our shows. Outside Nublu is the beautiful Brazilian waitress from Joe's and myself — both of us stuck outside, as the joint is packed and they're not letting anyone else in.
We get in, she disappears. Mauro is playing and insists I join them. I am handed a triangle, but not knowing how to play any of the Forro instruments correctly I hold it upside down and do the best I can. The other percussionist eventually reaches over and takes it away from me, and begins playing it loudly and correctly. I slink away.
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