IN THE MEANTIME, THE REAL CRIMINALS/TERRORISTS GO UNPUNISHED: SEE 911TRUTH.ORG FOR FURTHER DETAILS. PREPARE TO BE HORRIFIED.
***Have you ever wondered how long information will be on the web? Like, this website, this blog—will it be maintained until my death? Or long after, if I create a legacy to pay for its upkeep? Or, will it be paved over with more urgent numbers, renovation, my humorous insights undone by urbane renewal projects?***
This last week I spent in general hard at work mixing, like a mix machine, the music I recorded with Minky. We worked at Wooly Mammoth studios, in Waltham MA. I took the Acela train from Stamford to Boston; Amtrak has certainly, with this line at least, made travel on their trains much more appealing. It was clean and quiet, and not too crowded. And that wasn’t even in first class.
Minky picked me up at South Station—just by the Japanese Consulate that I visited twice in June—and we drove out to Waltham. Waltham is known as “the Birthplace of the American Industrial Revolution” as far as the chamber of commerce would like you to believe, and “watch city” more colloquially. The two names are related—the town’s centerpiece used to be a factory making watches, bomb fuse timers, etc. etc. The 19th century factories and mills are of course office space these days, but the town seems to have a lively center, with a diverse mix of shops and restaurants (apparently, a large Indian community here—and I mean Mumbai not South Dakota) and of course Brandeis University is large presence here. The town has a commons, a typical white-sided New England church (and an extremely frightening stone one) and so forth. It admirably fights off sprawl as far as it can.
The studio is not unlike the place in Providence we recorded the songs in—it’s in an aging industrial building—this one happened to begin its life as a large industrial bakery. Now the building houses a number of concerns, and since one of them is a furniture restoration company, you can be loud and messy. Wooly Mammoth is run by a very nice fellow named David Minehan, who has played for some time in a band called the Neighborhoods.
We got down to business, me keeping quite long hours, especially at the end, the work was around the clock basically—I slept on the studio couch (on the floor for a 3 hour break in the all-nighter, I gave Minky the couch). I left to get coffee in the morning and dinner in the evening. And we kicked ass and made some great mixes.
After the all-nighter, which was the last night, we found ourselves wrapping up at 9 on a Friday morning. The intense heat had let up a little—many days in the studio I was drenched in sweat. Minky and I hit the coffee shop for one last visit, and he drove me to Logan. Clear skies, no lines to speak of. Couldn’t be that easy. I checked in, no excess fees, no waiting in fact as I have moved up to Premier status on United (that they ever dropped me is a bit of a mystery, with all the traveling I do). I went to the gate after buying some magazines and a NY Times, and waited. It ended up being a long freaking wait. We got on the plane, we got off the plane. We sat around a bunch. What should have taken us an hour took us more than four with all the waiting, and I missed my connection to Paris. I argued, pleaded, researched—no other options available. Not one to let circumstances (or airlines, tho’ they ceaselessly try) to get me down, I consulted eroberparker.com, and found his recommendations for restaurants in the DC area, and found that one, Citronelle, is in a hotel. So I booked myself a room at the Latham Hotel in Georgetown, and hopped a cab. My bag was technically in transit, and having been inspected was not to be released to me until we each arrived in Paris on what would now be Sunday. So I had the clothes on my back (more on this later) and my computer bag, passport, etc. No toothbrush. Phone battery almost dead. No problem.
I checked in and made my way down to Citronelle as soon as I dropped my ‘stuff’ off in my room; meaning, there wasn’t much to put there but I went thru the motions of taking possession of my room and went back down to the main level. Of course, there’s a dress code at Citronelle—no sneakers strike one and no (Iggy or otherwise) t-shirts strike two. No problem—the maitre d’, very friendly, set me up in the lounge area, and I soon found 2 things that helped my night immensely: the sommelier is a fan of Iggy Pop; and, the maitre d’ is originally from Tours, Dom’s hometown. Both were music fans. Yes! For Brian, the sommelier, ‘s part, he picked out a gorgeous, intense, mind blowing white burgundy; plus he presented me with a glass of Chateauneuf-de-Pape, a glass of vin de paille…you get the idea. I woke up the next morning unable to even remember paying the bill! I sent them a thank you email…hope they got it.
The next day headed to the airport for my second attempt at going home, the driver of my town car was an extremely nice man, Mauricio, from Chile. We had a great time chatting on the way. I checked in, again, with no apparent problems. After I was done I noticed I was being shadowed by a couple of police officers. They waved me to come closer. Evidently my Iggy Pop T-shirt, which says RAW FUCKING POWER on the back, is breaking some kind of law. In fact, they demanded I change it or turn it inside out. Give a break. Not wanting to miss the flight, I complied, but…hey, as if I needed more reasons to scratch my head at the big question mark that is American morality. Kill lots of people, innocent or guilty by association; start unprovoked wars; all that’s cool, just don’t wear a t shirt that has a word that any 12 year old uses on a daily basis, and is in countless movies and TV shows (yes, I know it’s not allowed on network TV, but that is the condition of a granted license—I don’t need a license to wear a T-shirt—yet). And the obvious question: DIDN’T THESE GUYS HAVE SOMETHING BETTER TO DO??? I mean, aren’t there bigger, potential shoe-bombing fish to fry—and again, can someone email me and tell me what law I am breaking specifically?? I’m sure there are obscenity statues…er…I think?
As soon as I was on the plane I turned my shirt right side out again. Dear lord.
Yes, many people in France know what the word fuck means even if they don’t speak English as their first language. I would even say most do. And no one cares. NO ONE. In Japan Kurt Bloch told me he saw a billboard advertising the band Thee Michelle Gun Elephant that said FUCK YOU in 5-foot high letters. NO ONE CARED. I wore the T-shirt in Waltham, walked thru a park, had coffee, spent 4 hours in Logan airport, a few hours in Dulles, had dinner in a top, top restaurant, checked into a luxury hotel, walked around Georgetown for 2 hours and ate at another restaurant. NO ONE CARED ABOUT MY SHIRT. So...conclusion? Police solve the crimes they can, and this was an easy one.
I really am never moving back.
At last we landed, early even; my bag made it; I got the bus to Montparnasse, the train to La Rochelle, and Dom was there to pick me up. I spent 24 + hours with Aden & co., and couldn’t have been happier. Playing, swimming, cuddling, making jokes, giving presents—these are certainly my happiest moments.
Monday evening I headed back to Paris, I’ve been making some new music with some French colleagues. More as it develops.
Love
KS
Paris
