OSAKA 7/9
This show seems like about six zillion years ago…where I’ve been since then, the things I’ve seen, had done to me by doctors, etc., the people I’ve met, the cultures I’ve brushed up against. It must not be forgotten that our second show in Japan was a rousing success. We bullet-train’d to Osaka, me enjoying a fabulous bento box along the way, and briefly checked into the hotel, I had time enough to brush teeth and iron my clean clothes for the next chapter. Then we walked over to the club, of course all our stuff was set up perfectly already, copied from where we left things the night before, and thus soundcheck was nearly just a formality, but it did help, we got the sampler up and running so we could do ‘Beautiful One’. Matt and Jet and I went shopping--what I found in Tokyu Hands was a plastic cat’s ‘arm’, front leg, thing, with a trigger on the non-paw end, which when squeezed causes the paw to arc down and plastic claws to extend. It’s a marvelously useless thing, until you get creative. And, I probably bought it because of the fantastic video that was being played on a small TV next to them, a kind of infomercial for this toy which showed, in ever increasing levels of hysterically forced hilarity, the various reactions that could be induced with its use. There were more than a few moments, probably intended but nuanced to appear accidental, that made this feline arm a furry phallic symbol, the girl in the video caressing her face, etc…ah, anyway, each of us bought one, so, advertising works. Ta-da.
Uh, the show rocked. Afterwards, we had a lovely dinner with Shonen Knife and co., talking rock, tennis, and all. I got back to my room around 1am, and watched the end of Federer’s victorious Wimbledon match, and started in on the World Cup final. I admit, I fell asleep, shortly after Italy’s tying goal. I woke up at about 6, in time to see the massive flood of confetti, the victorious Italians, celebrating, and replays of the Zidane head-butt. When you wake up with the TV on, and the news of something big, big at least by virtue of the number of interested eyes on it, happening, it always looks apocalyptic. In reality, there are bigger problems in the world than a row between two athletes.
IPOH 7/11
My travel to Malaysia was thru Singapore; I spent the night after the Osaka show there. Chang Kang, singer of the local band Typewriter, was kind enough to show me around town. After dining with John, the promoter of the festival that the Posies and I were playing in town later in the week, CK and I strolled around various neighborhoods, had a tofu dessert and a couple of fruit juices, and eventually I retired to the Hangout Hotel, now one of my favorite accommodations (and considering all the 5 star traveling I’ve done in my life, that’s saying something). A hipster budget hotel, it has typical rooms as well as hostel-style dorm rooms; the restaurant looked excellent, with a lengthy and interesting wine list; there’s a great roof garden with a ‘pool’—just a few inches of water in a tiled, roughly 4 ft by 6 ft rectangle—obv. it’s not even a wading pool, but instead, a civilized place to cool your feet and have a drink or a chat (and I used it as my, er, hangout late nights, chatting with friends and fellow travelers). The rooms are bright, and modern—but you don’t feel like your being placed in some arty French designer’s Habitrail, designed to impress museum curators but indifferent to the needs of the occupant—quite the opposite. They have a peaceful, graceful, white on white with blond wood look; the beds actually induce sleep, and the bathroom is large. The room I stayed in the following weekend had a gorgeous view out two sides. There’s a lounge on the second floor with free internet (when are hotels going to wise up and realize free internet, which costs them virtually nothing, can make or break someone’s desire to stay there?). Where’s the ‘budget’ part? No room service. They claimed not to have daily housekeeping service, although my room was serviced while I was there. The hot water heater has to be switched on manually, and water lasts for about 5 minutes (not a big deal in a country that’s just a few degrees above the equator). No TVs in the room (so what? There’s a big screen TV in the lounge and I had plenty to read). I mean, this place felt better than some of the hotels I stayed at on the REM tour (e.g., the hotel at the Brest airport where I spent a day off, in an industrial park!! and the sad, moldy place we spent a day off in Antwerp). Compare the Hangout Hotel to Seattle’s hipster budget hotel, the Ace Hotel—by comparison, rooms at the Ace remind me of the jail cell where I spent the night in Gottingen, Germany; and not one room has bathrooms en suite. To seal the deal on the HH, it sits atop Mt. Emily, which in location location location terms was also chosen as the site for the presidential palace, so it has great views and a kind of hidden, but not isolated, feel. Most of the top of Mt. Emily (a big hill in actuality) is a park. Next door to the hotel was a fascinating, abandoned mansion. I never did get the chance to enquire about the story of the place. To get to town, you exit the hotel building, go out the gate that’s at the end of the short driveway, and double back alongside the hotel, taking a staircase down to a residential street; turning left takes you to the start of downtown, with restaurants, a supermarket, a money changer, and a couple of pool halls being the first things you hit. I myself would take breakfast (ok, another budget facet is that even tho' breakfast is included at the hangout, it’s less than minimal—it’s just cereals, DIY toast and coffee) at 24 hour Muslim Indian outdoor restaurant—and have roti (called pratha--pronounced Paratta—in Singapore). Pratha here are either paper-thin (yes, they are called ‘paper pratha’) and laced with sugar, or pancake like, somewhere between naan bread and a pancake, anyway. I had a banana pratha—in any case, they are sweet, and served with a savoury, curry-like sauce.
I got up at dawn the next morning (being equatorial, day is about 12 hours long all year round, from about 7 til 7; sunsets are sadly short; dawn is wonderful and can be watched in its entirety in less than an hour). I hopped a taxi to the airport. Taxis are ludicrously cheap in Singapore—my 20-minute ride was about US$10. Singapore is interesting in that the standard of living is high, comparable with, say, Australia—but somehow, prices occasionally reflect third-world economics. Prices for restaurants are super cheap, generally. Anyway, I checked in for my flight, and boarded the plane for the first leg, which was to Kuala Lumpur on Malaysian. KUL, called KLIA by all locals, just like every one refers to Kuala Lumpur as KL, a la LA for Los Angeles. I slept and transferred to my flight to Ipoh, taking a train to another terminal. Customs isn’t done in the first port of entry in Malaysia; it’s done at the final destination. Ipoh airport is pretty small, there’s a short runway and one small terminal building, which also has the control tower attached to it. There’s one baggage claim. There was just one customs officer; she took a cursory look at my small bag and my guitar (“What’s this?” “A guitar.” “Oh. OK.”). In other words, I could have smuggled a live goat into Malaysia. Not that I’d want to, of course! I was met at the arrivals area by Jay, who plays in a band called FreeLovc, and was putting together the show here, and his mom and dad too! All very kind people. The family has a travel agency that specializes in arranging travel for people making the Hajj, among the usual travel services. And, now, a medical side trip.
At some point before I left on this trip, I noticed the emergence of a red bump on my elbow. I assumed it was a mosquito bite, even though it wasn’t itchy. Dom had a look, diagnosed it as a kind of pimple, that wasn’t ready to pop, and said leave it alone (Dom’s medical judgment is generally sound). During my time in Japan, it started to show a bit of white. I tried to pop it. It didn’t seem to be ready still. I put Neosporin on it. I even dipped my elbow in peroxide. By the time I was flying to Singapore, it was swollen, hot, and not responding to the above. I actually popped a morphine pill (thanks, Tony), which provided a wonderful afternoon’s entertainment, but evaporated and left me with the pain unchecked. It was enough to give me nightmares that night. CK and I had a great time buying various balms and remedies at Mustapha, an everything store that that fills 5 or 6 levels with stuffs of various forms, all cheap; everything from Evanescence CDs to saris. I had forgotten that Tiger Balm was perhaps Singapore’s most famous export. Anyway, none of this stuff cured the problem, unfortunately. So, when I arrived to Ipoh, I made my first order of business to get some medical attention paid to my arm. Jay took me the local hospital, and I had a very nice nurse practitioner do his best—he sprayed my elbow with a painkilling spray, cut into the nasty thing (which, I guess was just a good old, medieval boil) and then press out the rotten pus with all his might. Hell yes, it hurt! He bandaged me up, gave me some pills and sent me on my way. It was only about 10 US dollars for all of that. Which would have been amazing, if that was the end of it. The pills didn’t do much—I was given amoxicillin for an antibiotic, which is what you give a cat, cats having an immune system about 10,000 times more powerful than a human’s. The pain pill had basically one effect; narcolepsy, which is hilarious, except when you’re in post-op pain. My arm continued to swell, and was still stove-burner hot. And it hurt like a MF. When I got to KL, I went to a clinic for, wishful thinking indeed, a routine bandage change, at the clinic next door to the hotel. One look from the doctor and she sent me to hospital. Indeed, I had a look at it the same morning, and saw what looked like a teaspoon of chicken fat adhered to the gauze. I went to a large, modern med center and the doctor there was determined to attack the problem as thoroughly as possible. He x-rayed my arm to make sure the infection wasn’t penetrating the bone, and then sent me to the operating room. They laid me on a table, fully clothed, shoes and all, and jabbed a 3-inch long IV needle into a vein on my right hand. Gross! I woke up an hour and half later, not groggy at all, and bandaged up. He told me he cut in to my elbow and hunted down all the rotten flesh, eventually removing 1 cc of infected tissue. No stitches, just kind of a scoop off the top. This time they took no chances, they gave me cipro and sultamicillin and a one-a-day painkiller, the effects of which seemed magically relevant only to the wound. It was tender for a few days, and I endured a couple of pretty intense cleaning sessions in Singapore, at the incredible Raffles med center, but seems completely on the mend. Sadly, I couldn’t frolic in the hotel pool, but I was able to perform my shows with out any hindrance, I have 2-3 days of meds left, and will check in with a doctor in Paris for a cleaning and bandage change. But the hole is already filling in with healthy tissue and growing closed. Special thanks to Kurt V. for coming and hanging out with me during my KL hospital episode!
Anyway, the show in Ipoh was organized by Bodysurf, an indie label there. Ipoh is a medium sized town, tho' it is the 3rd largest city in Malaysia. It used to be a kind of mining town, (as did KL—Kuala Lumpur didn’t exist 150 years ago, and was founded merely as a mining camp at the confluence of two muddy rivers. In fact, Kuala Lumpur means ‘muddy confluence’). Ipoh is considered the indie rock capital of Malaysia, you’d be surprised how many bands have formed there—and it’s indie rock, not, say, hardcore or some unlistenable grindcore--a bit scream-o, but it’s getting there, as far as songwriting goes. Sadly, I was struggling against the medication, but I managed to pull together an impassioned, if not brilliantly executed set. The sound was pretty bad, and after 6 support bands, people were pretty worn out, and it was a little much to get people to focus on my downbeat solo stuff after a bunch of loud indie rock. A core of 20 or so people really listened, tho'. I gave a lengthy and explicit introduction to ‘When U Find Someone’—later, a woman in a Muslim scarf, reflecting the lyric ‘together we’ll burn the world’, said, as I signed the ‘Private Sides’ CD she bought, said ‘together we’ll burn in hell’, but in a humorous way!
KUALA LUMPUR 7/13
Thanks to pill-induced narcolepsy, I could barely keep my eyes open on the pleasant bus ride from Ipoh to KL. Every now and then I pulled myself up from the bottom of the tar pit I was soaking my neurons in, and looked out on rolling, jungly hills. I started to perk up when we rolled into KL, and marveled at this beautiful white jewel of a city. If you want to imagine KL, not having seen it—think of the end of the Star Wars movie, when the rebel alliance forces have a victory celebration in a jungle punctuated with futuristic white buildings. Take that rebel alliance design aesthetic and make an entire city out if it, 100 years after vanquishing Darth & co., and you have KL. Its rapid growth has had an interesting consequence—they bypassed most of the 20th century and built the 21st on top of the 19th. And in the 19th, there wasn’t much there. So, despite massive works like the Petronas Towers (tallest buildings in the world), which look like CGI additions to the skyline, too futuristic to be real, there’s lots of green space in and around the city. I never saw ugly sprawl, or too much pavement without a bunch of trees to counterbalance it. The first night in town, Beezewax (did I mention they were the ones who hooked me up with these shows?), our local promoter, Aidil (who, like Jay, is just a guy in a band, putting shows together out of necessity—his band, Couple, was on the bill in KL just like FreeLove was on the bill in Ipoh), and Aidil’s g.f., Edna, and I went to an epic dinner in the same neighborhood as the venue. I was staying at Le Meridien, a gleaming white 36-story tower, right next to KL’s main train station. I say gleaming white like that’s a distinguishing quality—everything in KL is gleaming, most of it’s white, and almost everything looks like it was built about a week and a half ago. Just beyond the train station is the terminus of one of the monorail lines, and for less than a US dollar I was shuttled comfortably to Bukit Bintang, the most vibrant and active neighborhood, from what I was told. Here there are a couple of streets of Chinese restos. I say Chinese but many elements of Thai and other flavors are represented. So, we had wok-fried crab, ridiculously rich calamari with a buttermilk/coconut coating, satay, tom yum, and kongkang leaves.
So, for the show day, after having my arm hacked and scooped, I returned to the bustling Bukit Bintang neighborhood, ate at the same resto as the previous night, and strolled up to Little Havana, just around the corner. Little Havana is indeed a Cuban bar (owned, naturally, by a Frenchman and his Chinese, Catholic {I guess from all the gold crosses and her name, Mary} wife). The stucco and tile-roof building’s spacious second storey salsa dancing lounge was rented out by Aidil, who also brought in backline and a very decent PA. Aidil, is not pronounced Ay-DIL, as my Francophone instincts would have led me to do, but just like the English word idol. I did some interviews, got settled in with a bottle of water, and hoped my arm would hold up. As it turns out, I had no reason to fear, the show was great, and the audience was stellar. I finally got them to relax and sit on the floor, stage, etc., and delivered an efficient, one-hour set. I used Beezewax’s keyboard, which had a somewhat digital-sounding Wurlitzer facsimile, and did the job. I retired fairly soon after to Le Meridien, not too worse for wear.
The next day Kurt V. and I took the train to Singapore from KL. The station as I mentioned lies at the feet of Le Meridien, so you just take the elevators down to the parking level, walk across a drive, and you’re in the station. Upstairs the station has a food court with very cheap and decent, if cafeteria style, food. It’s clean, tho', and not too crowded. I went for roti in the morning for breakfast, and had lunch there on the day I went to hospital. I think each meal was under 3 ringgit, or less than one US dollar. Also in the station there was a kiosk selling mobile phones, phone credit, and making repairs—just what I needed. The modern Nokia phone I use, which wasn’t even on the market when I got it as a gift from Nokia for playing Live 8 (to which I thought: shouldn’t a village in Africa with no phones get this phone instead of me—one of the many impotencies that I rolled my eyes in regards to Live 8 about—yes, you can be horrified by a Live 8 naysayer, but here is one. Nothing changed, except Pink Floyd played) but is now as common and ordinary as a ballpoint pen, had suffered an injury when I was in the studio with Luis Francesco Arena last month—I dropped it and cracked the cover of the screen. Shit, I have to buy a whole new phone, or what? And lo and behold, the screen cover is one piece with the reset of the phone’s plastic shell. And this shell is easily replaced as it turns out. For a few dollars, and about 3 minutes of waiting time, I got a good as new, if metallic powder blue, phone. The color just says: teenage girl. And, I would like my honorary teenage girl diploma now.
The train to Singapore is a 7-hour ride, with pleasant scenery—tranquil farms and small towns and lots of forest. There is an entertainment program, a VHS tape played on two TVs per train car—one of which is in the back, and thus has every seat facing away from it. Sound is blared from overhead, in English for the most part. There were nature documentaries, Hercule Poirot, and the abysmal Clint Eastwood melodrama ‘Bloodwork’. Clint, speaking with all the Latino authority that having the heart of a teenage, Mexican-American female crime victim (you see how many predictable-story-hoops of justice and vindictive glory he has to jump thru?) implanted in his chest brings (do they really let 60 year old cops with transplanted hearts continue to carry guns and do raids and stuff??), says to a rival cop: “If I catch you in my jurisdiction again, this Mexican’s gonna kick your ass”. Sigh. Anyway, despite the fact I didn’t sleep much, the trip seemed to go quickly. In fact, we arrived at Singapore way ahead of schedule, and the train being not very full, went thru customs in rapid fashion, and thus it appeared that we were going to arrive in the terminal something like 40 minutes ahead of the scheduled time. No dice. Trains run on time in Singapore, and that means if they are early, they cruise to some quiet, dark place and rest until the scheduled arrival time draws near. No matter. We were met at the station by the wonderful pair of guys that would be our handlers for the weekend, Marcus and John (not to be confused with John, who booked the festival; or, for that matter, John, who organized the backline or even Jon from the Posies). We dropped by Kurt’s hotel and he dropped his things there and then we went up to the Hangout Hotel and walked down the stairs and ate at the resto nearest the hotel, really, a Chinese place that after giving us menus pretty much said that all of our selections weren’t available. I asked what our choices really were and were given a ginger fish (isn’t that a member of Marilyn Manson’s band?) clay pot, some sweet and sour pork, ginger pork, and kingkang leaves. I had canned coconut and water chestnut beverages. Yum. No complaints on any front here. I walked back up the hotel, bade everyone goodnight and checked into my wonderful, spacious, just cool enough, quiet room. And went right to sleep.
SINGAPORE 7/15
And woke up an hour later. Why? I had slept decently the night before, but not excessively—maybe 7 hours. I only napped for at most an hour on the train. I didn’t have coffee or tea at night. Was it the prescriptions for my arm? Some discomfort? Later I concluded I was just excited to be there. Anyway, after awhile it became obvious that sleep wasn’t going to arrive anytime soon. I read (I’ll be working on Black Lamb and Grey Falcon for the rest of my thirties) I spoke with Dom on the phone a bit, I dreamed while awake—plotting my future course and exploring the places I want to be—etc. Slowly, the light of the day started to emerge, and it sent a gorgeous translucence radiating thru the window shades, which I had drawn over the beautifully shaped windows. Occasionally I would get up and look out over the city and the details around me, my room was a corner room, one side looked out over the impressive gleam of downtown’s steel and glass, the other was a more intimate view of the neighborhood on top of and just behind the hill; lots of trees, and a gleaming Hindu temple/altar—it wasn’t a big structure, more like a gazebo in scale, but intricately carved and solid. At long last, I managed to get another hour of sleep in, but woke up and realized it was pratha time. Marcus picked me up shortly thereafter and took me to Raffles hospital to have my wound cleaned and dressing changed. Anyway, the activity for the day was my show at the ‘Observation Deck’, wherein artists from the festival (and not just musicians—visual artist Derek Hess was also part of the festival and made an Observation Deck appearance) presented their work—in the musicians’ cases it was generally done by playing a handful of acoustic songs—and were interviewed, and took questions from the audience. I augmented my performance by playing a few snippets of recorded works (productions, collaborations, etc.) from my laptop. It was the kind of situation that would be tailor made to a blowhard, ‘intimate setting’ expert such as myself. So, it went well. The performances were held in a small café in the Esplanade building, adjacent to a library. If I haven’t described the Esplanade yet, it’s a huge, multi-function building—a cultural center with performance theatres and the like; a mall with shops and restaurants and movie theatres, and a waterfront park with green space along a quay, plus a cool rooftop garden atop the building itself. The flat space is limited as most of the complex is covered by two huge lobes covered in flipped up panels—the effect is like two halves of a massive durian fruit, or perhaps two incredibly giant fly eyes were plopped down on the building. And I mean massive.
After the set I met Chang Kang from Typewriter and he, his g.f. Akiko, Kurt, a journalist (Melissa) who was interviewing me on the go as well as having my performances filmed for a web edition of a local paper, and myself repaired to Raffles, to suck down a few of the inevitable Singapore Slings. I had two myself. Raffles is a gleaming white complex of colonial symbolism that takes up a couple of blocks . The drinks are best had in the Long Bar, deep inside the place on the second floor. Automated paddle fans in rows along the ceiling add to the atmosphere, even if they move very little of it. Peanuts are eaten, shells tossed on the floor. The ‘Sling is a girl’s drink, fruit juice and gin. Sure were tasty tho’. I was tipsy after my pair, I should mention that on this trip I had hardly drank at all, I had one fairly festive night after the Tokyo show (thanks for the tequila, but in the future, no thanks!) but other than that I didn’t touch the stuff, so this hit me like a ton of old growth tropical timber. We did wade thru the tiny museum on the third floor, with 120-plus years of memorabilia, including mementos from famous guests (Hayley Mills! I had to sms Scott McCaughey). We bade Melissa farewell and the rest of us went to a studio, which if memory serves was called TNT, in a grubby shopping center not too far from my hotel. Nirvana had evidently visited the place when they played here years ago, as it’s kind of the home of Singapore’s punk scene (hey, there was an autographed poster on the wall, and that’s the story that was told to me—I’m just the teller of this legend). It’s been around for some time, then. Just a tiny place, with a miniscule recording area, efficiently housing a drum set, amps, and instruments, plus a control room and the obligatory studio couch. I played keyboards and provided some vocal collages on two songs. After our hard work was done, the 4 of us met more of Typewriter and their friends at the Newtown Circle Hawker Center, which is a massive outdoor food court. Packed with plastic picnic tables, all numbered, and surrounded by food stalls, which you are expected to visit and order what you like, just giving your table number. We had some crayfish that looked like samurai in armor, or transformers, or shovels; tiger prawns that were almost a foot long, I kid you not, kingkang leaves (again!) mutton prepared in the Indian Muslim fashion, etc etc etc! A true feast, consumption of which was no mean feat considering that when we arrived at the studio, another session was in progress, and we had a snack to kill time, hunger, and the effects of two Singapore Slings—the snack being a hearty bowl of rice and barbecued pork. Oof! About 5 hours separated the two meals tho.
It was close to three in the morning when I got back to the hotel, Matt and the other Posies had arrived in the late evening, Matt having spent the intervening week in Japan, the others had gone to Seattle and back. Matt was rooming with me. We chatted about our respective adventures, and got some sleep in preparation for the big show day the next day—and another pratha run scheduled for 9am.
SINGAPORE 7/16
We made it up for the run, and made it in a slightly rushed fashion, not easy when you are wolfing down banana pratha and curry. We headed to the Esplanade, 4 Posies, two handlers and van. We stopped by the stage, which was a totally professional large stage with a massive sound system and roped off area for about 2000 people. We soundchecked in the heat of the morning, which was well developed, about 95 degrees. The green room for the stage was a white tent with a table and a plastic chair or two. After the check, there was a locust resting on the back of one of the chairs—the biggest one I have seen, about 6 inches long. It looked like the rubber giant bugs I used to by in SF’s Chinatown when I visited it with my grampa. But it was real, its armor thick, shiny green and yellow. It never moved, but I didn’t get too close.
On the agenda from there, Thai lunch; my own soundcheck in the blazing hot sun, on the tiny amphitheatre stage down the quay from the mainstage; a soundcheck for my appearance with Beezewax; interviews, in a cool, Kubrick-worthy function room deep inside the Esplanade building; another hospital visit for cleaning and dressing my elbow.
Showtime for KS. I strolled down to the stage area, at dusk. The stage had the water behind it, framing the famous spewing lion directly across the bay, and faced a small concrete amphitheatre with space for a few hundred people. It turned out to be packed—people crowded around the sides, too. The mainstage was dark for my set, until the end anyway. So, to probably 2,000+ people, I did a Ken Stringfellow show, and a great one at that. Everything I had learned, all the strength and confidence I had acquired, gave me wings at the right moment. I had the perfect audience—just there to listen, no hecklers, no drunks. I managed to carry my voice off the mic for a couple of songs; a mic that went dead mid song didn’t throw me in the least, it just went on and on. I would venture to say that it was the best show of my solo career in that it was not only the sum of all my acquired knowledge, but it gave me a glimpse that my show was able to project to large audiences, that I don’t always have to consider my show an eternal struggle of man vs. bar.
As the night progressed, I could feel all that stored anticipatory energy building and building. I was leaping and twisting like a garden hose that has been turned on full blast but not held when I joined Beezewax onstage for “…It’s All About You”, the recorded version of which I produced and sang on.
And the Posies show. Wow. We had tough acts to follow—Beezewax kicked ze ass, and Electrico, a local band that shares members with Typewriter, in fact, was particularly on fire and well received. But we put on some show—it sounded like crap onstage (all festivals do), my equipment totally rebelled, and the keyboard was a freaking Korg Triton, not exactly a rock warhorse. But, we threw ourselves into it, not impaling ourselves on the technical errors that occurred. If reception is any indication, we signed autographs late into the night, and were cheered everywhere we went. Although, I can’t conceal my pride that in the Straits Times’ review of the festival, the quote selected was a 22-year-old Singaporean citing my show as the highlight of the festival. It was for me, that’s for sure, even tho’ I loved the Posies set and got the usual runner’s high from it. But I saw some potential in myself that I hadn’t seen before as a result of my solo performance.
After the show, I held court in the wading pool at the hotel until the wee hours. I took care of the money etc. Jon took care of the merch sales money. In the airport the next morning, or later that morning more accurately, as we left the hotel at 4.50, we divvied up the cash (hey, Microsoft Word actually recognizes ‘divvies’ as a word) and I flew to Osaka, spent the night at the Kansai Nikko hotel, and flew on to Paris the following morning. One other funny item to note is that in Singapore, at the festival, we ran into Brian Reitzel, who used to play drums in Redd Kross and Air, and these days scores films, and his ms. They were on a vacation that had included visits to Japan and Indonesia, and Singapore as well and were staying at the Oriental hotel, just behind the festival site.
I spent only two days in Paris, and somehow I wasn’t that shattered with jet lag. I had a quiet night with Dom the first night; and went to a party on a boat the second night (also, checked in my excellent Paris doctor to make sure the arm was healing OK; she banned me from the tennis court for an extra week! Curses.) wherein Fugu and band were playing—which was excellent. And of course as he is the producer of Fugu, my neighbor Xavier from Tahiti 80 was there—we live just a few hundred meters apart but with our schedules it’s pretty rare to run into each other! So it was a welcome night out even tho’ I barely spent any time in.
So on Thursday (I got home on Tuesday evening) I was on a plane to NY, I was staying at the Simpson-Sachs residence on the upper w. side, truly a paradise for the amenities provided: snarky conversation (MS Words does NOT recognize snarky—shame on them!), friendly cat, walls of CDs and records, internet, Billboard mag to browse…I mean, come on! Tony Sachs co-runs NYCD, formerly a retail CD store now an online CD merchant; NYCD.com was already the home of the New York Cross Dressers so if you want to check out Tony & Sal’s inventory visit nycdonline.com Thursday night Tony & his brilliant filmmaker beloved, Christine, took me out to Palm Too, where famous and frequent diners are caricatured on the walls—about 40% of them bear some resemblance to Chevy Chase, and Rita Moreno doesn’t really look like Rita Moreno. I thought the portraits were all ancient but there’s a fairly inaccurate Britney Spears. After dinner Tony & I went to a small, dark bar at 155 Rivington, I never got the name of the place, but Jason from Hopewell was djing and his bandmates were in effect on both sides of the bar. I had more than a few friends join me, and had a friendly catch up with Sam from Interpol, perhaps one of the more cordial of your NY postrockers. Tony & I went home not too late, and I didn’t even finish my second glass of white wine. It’s like that these days.
Another odd development in my life, I require sleep less and less. I checked email on Tony’s computer until 4am, and was up and ready to go at 8. When the environment is work related—like when I’m in the studio, or on tour, or there’s other events to be excited about (like being in NYC to see an Os Mutantes show) I just don’t seem to need sleep. When I’m home in Paris I catch up a bit, but even still I don’t seem to need more than 6 hours a night—I used to sleep as much as possible, and begrudge anything less than a ‘full’ 8 hours. Now I get by just fine on as little as four. Genius sleep!
Friday, which as I write was yesterday, I worked my way downtown. I had a so-so pain au chocolate and an excellent macchiato at Bouchon, the bakery in the Time-Warner center. I met my friend Jill, who I went to Univ. with, and her son Max. Jill and her husband John are brilliant architects who have made a functional, affordable, and innovative home for themselves in Brooklyn…giving themselves a backyard, a garage(!), and an apartment within the building to rent out. And it’s elegant, modern, but, comfortable and inviting—at least in photos! I haven’t had the chance to come and visit the house yet. From there I met my friend Sonya for lunch and to pick her brain about a number of subjects; and then I met with the Posies’ new publisher, Evergreen copyrights, whose office is below Canal Street, southwest of the tunnel entrance. While I was in the office, all hell broke loose, meteorologically speaking. The long tail of tropical storm that had worked its way up to Cape Cod was being dragged over Manhattan, and the clouds purged in spattering bucketloads all over creation. Subways and PATH trains were flooded to the point of inoperability (what the ‘terrorists’ couldn’t accomplish…hey, low ratings for Bush week, and a terrorist plot about as feasible as Ming the Merciless vaporizing the moon is ‘foiled’). As is my peculiar wont, I decided at the least opportune time to walk the 2 miles or so from Debrosses St. to Webster Hall, on 11th St., and not give a flying fork if I got soaked head to toe, which in fact was the result. Magical! I swear, as counterintuitive as it may seem, that summer rain has healing properties, even in New York City. My bandaged arm, which was of course wringing wet, looked like it healed twice as fast when I dressed it this morning—it now looks like just a scrape as opposed to a gouge, and it was still gougy at yesterday’s cleaning.
I arrived at Webster Hall looking like a the contents of a washing machine (isn’t it cool how you can get money wet and it recovers, tho’?) and Bill Bartell rescued me and got me in just as Os Mutantes finished their soundcheck. Bill introduced me to Sergio, who was pleased to show us his incredible guitar—made by his and Arnaldo’s brother, evidently, and used on the Mutantes’ recordings and on stage throughout the vintage years of their career. It has built in fuzz, the ‘green jungle fuzz’ or something like that he called it. It has white pickups that look like huge bars of Dove soap; the guitar itself a double cutaway hollowbody in a deep maroon that’s turning brown with age.
I had a few friends come to the show—and I am sad for anyone that missed it—and if you have a chance, see Os Mutantes. Even if you don’t know their old records it’s pretty incredible. Sergio is such a badass guitar player it’s unreal. Because it’s the same guitar and fuzz, the sound isn’t really updated from 1968; Arnaldo plays heavy distorted organ, and the 3 piece band is augmented by a great bass player, a wild percussionist (usually not a welcome factor, but in this case, it totally works), a great singer in place of Rita Lee, and two utility musos who play keys, guitar, flutes etc etc. It sounds like the vintage OM rec’s but of course is a live show so it’s…exciting. Oh yeah there were two backing vocalists too. There’s a kind of Cowsills meets Satanic Majesties Request (that album title makes no sense to me, grammatically) thing with the vocals that’s exhilarating, and the guitar playing…jeezus! Oddly, tho OM’s one English language album was barely released, much of the set was in English…didn’t matter. Amazing.
Their tour dates:
7/23 Hollywood Bowl w/Flaming Lips and Thievery Corp.
7/24 the Fillmore in SF
7/26 the Moore Theatre in Seattle
7/30 Pitchfork Music Fest. in Chicago w/Glenn Kotche, Yo La Tengo et al
8/2 Manuel Aritime Ctr., in Miami
Go.
Love
KS
New Canaan CT
