WON’T GET FOOLED AGAIN
SALZBURG, 3/29
Our taxi driver to Graz seemed to take the fact he was responsible for our safety rather lightly, considering he had to have known we were accident survivors, fresh from the trauma. He really wanted to make his hourly pay go up (he made almost what I make in a day, by the way—and his day wasn’t done). Hungary has almost no superhighways, and no roads lead to or from Pecs that are of any significance (good old Route 66, tho'—really). So we hurtled like a fucking luge over these ridiculous little asphalt pinstripes…we passed the Balaton, which is central Europe’s largest lake, curious for the fact that it is rarely more than 6 feet deep in all of its 230 square miles. We went by it so fast it actually evaporated. Our driver dumped us in Graz, having only stopped once, at my request—so I could spend the meager proceeds of my Pecs merch sales. It got me a nine-volt battery, a couple of bottles of water, and a sandwich. Rah rah rah. Then Matts’ girlfriend Sabine was there to pick us up—and Matts’ flatmate was there to receive a garbage bag full of rescued items from Matts’ car. I had to pee, but I was worried about being late—we hadn’t left Pecs until about midday and we still had to cross all of Austria (which isn’t saying much, but still) and get me onstage by 8.45 that night. But really that taxi driver had helped us out quite a bit; he shaved probably 45 minutes of our estimated travel time with his lead foot. And Sabine was no slouch. We pulled up to the ARGE Kultur at something like 7.45.
ARGE Kultur is one of those wonderful beneficiaries of Austrian public funds, and let me tell you, the money isn’t going to waste. It’s appropriate that Salzburg, even though it’s not a huge city by any standards, receive generous largesse from the state, seeing as how an outrageous number of tourists pass thru spending money as they go. And personally, as much as I love the idea of an opera house (and was honored to play it with REM in 1999), I think Salzburg’s Kultur haus is more bang for your buck than the Staatsoper. Within its walls you can have theatre, cinema, music rehearsal, dance classes, cafés/restaurants…much of that at the same time. It’s well run and friendly. It’s a similar entity to the Posthof in Linz, where I played last year, but I think the ARGE is enjoyed more often by its constituents—it’s located much more centrally than the Posthof, for example, and it seems to bustle with quite a bit more and quite a few more kinds of activity.
The show that night was in support of a really decent Austrian band called Garish; despite the goth-sounding name, they perform a gentle kind of spacious pop music…some of their musical moments would sound good in a Wim Wenders film. They incorporate accordion, Rhodes piano, etc into the act. They drew a pretty decent crowd, and this crowd was very receptive to my show—they simmered down and drew close when I played and gave me a very warm ovation. No one told me to stop, I kept asking the sound guys how much time I had left…but they would just look back with a pleasant sort of blankness (and they did speak English, as I spoke with them before the show). I just picked a point in my head that felt like the right time to stop—I still don’t know if it was over or under my 45-minute limit—immediately after my set I hopped up on the bar and sold CDs.
GRAZ, 3/30
I was sound asleep when we pulled up to the club; I had my headphones on and was listening to Garish. The PPC is a ramshackle affair, located at the end of a dusty driveway in a kind of industrial backwater of Graz’s red light district. Sounds great, right? Well, it’s not so bad…it’s run by a kind of stern looking mom-and-dad type of couple, who hang out at the coat check and glare at everyone? Still not sold on the place? Well, read on. The music staff is quite friendly but the security guys are kinda intense (I wasn’t sure to be more afraid of the wannabe thugs coming for the hip-hop night or the thugs at the gate) and the girl at the bar wanted to charge me for a bottle of water, even after she knew I was playing. They cutoff my set, which was reasonably full of 50 paying (and drinking) customers, in favor of jump starting the hip hop club night, which had about 5 paying customers (the DJ was friendly). And they don’t have an espresso machine…complain, complain. I played in a small lounge upstairs; the main floor has a larger venue that hosted an eclectic dance night of indie rock/soul music/80s hits (it was pretty fun, actually, I had to walk thru it quite a few times going to and from my dressing room and got a contact high from the patrons there rocking out). Another complaint just came to mind: no wifi or Ethernet access!
People were really into the set, and we had a good laugh at the two snotty girls who were laughing thru all the quiet bits of my songs, in their own private conversation, oblivious that there was a show happening 10 feet away (are people really that stupid? Answer: yep). Even with everybody laughing at my mockery of their imagined conversation, they kept plowing along. Why do people pay to get into my shows and then talk the whole time? Isn’t there a nicer bar somewhere that has no cover?
As I mentioned, I was politely asked to stop playing after about an hour or so. The crowd’s applause had been getting more and more enthusiastic with every song, there was no way the show would be over under less restrictive circumstances. So, at first I took about 40 people and managed to stuff them into the restrooms (the men’s and women’s rooms have a common entrance and foyer). I played my electric guitar, so of course no one could hear it, but everybody clapped and sang along, I played Bee Gees songs, “O-o-h Child”, whatever I could think of. As you could imagine, and I agreed with this, the management was pretty unhappy I was blocking the entrance to the toilets. At that point a young man volunteered to grab an acoustic guitar from his flat—I told everyone to head down to the club entrance, where I sold CDs until the guy,
Herwig, came back with his guitar…and a hand drum! Usually hand drums are a no-fly zone in my book, but he did play along rather well. I took the crowd out into the parking lot and was about to play when the security guy, the same guy to whom I’d asked if people had in-and-out privileges (they did) just minutes before, said “this is private property—you have to go the street”. Private property? What kind of bullshit logic is that? I mean, these were * your * paying customers, you dumb prick. We’re part of the activities taking place in your private walls. My theory is the club didn’t like the fact that their night had been upstaged, and that I was more responsible for customers being there, and spending money on CDs that they had no interest in, than the lame hip hop night that was apparently their brainchild.
I took everyone down to the end of the driveway, and played for about 20 minutes. More people came by, and one guy who stopped by on his bike for a couple of songs actually put €10 in Herwig’s guitar case. I even sold more CDs to some of the people that dropped by…and also had to accept my fee for the show on the street…several hundred Euros, much of it in €10 notes! Embarrassing…and dangerous. No harm done, however. The ‘friendly’ security guy came to check on things, I think he realized the idiocy of basically making 40 people not want to comeback to their club, potentially ever for live music in a town as small as Graz. Or he just wanted to find more things to say no about. You could tell that this club was a kind of 2-dimensional place where any original idea would be met with suspicion. I mean, come on, it’s run by people who like the mom and dad of your girlfriend, who don’t like you—of course they’re gonna say no to anything fun.
My hotel was across the street, an Etap, which is a pretty grim lo-budget place, but hey, it was conveniently located and actually the staff was very friendly. I threw my stuff in there and met a bunch of the fans, Herwig, etc. at a pretty cool, quiet little bar just 100 feet up the road. A very friendly couple that had been at the show, with their teenage son, bought me my two glasses of wine; I signed some CDs, talked to fans, and then headed back to the Etap.
VIENNA, 3/31
Although the breakfast wasn’t awful at the Etap, the fact that you served yourself on cafeteria-style trays in a brightly lit room that just said ‘school’ to me turned me off and I asked if Sabine and Matts would take me to a café (they live in Graz, so, I knew they’d know a proper Konditorei). I had a jam-filled croissant (hey, it saves the environment if the condiment doesn’t need to be packed separately, and you don’t have to wash a knife afterwards). We hit the road for Vienna, and were there in a couple of hours. I basically had time to hit a net café briefly and then head to the B72 for rehearsal with the band. My band was a mix of local musicians, from various bands; we put together a really strong set list comprising of songs from my last two albums plus “Don’t Break the Silence”, plus a couple of covers—unusual ones: “Communication” by the Cardigans (which I introduced as ‘half of a Led Zeppelin song’) and the closer “Tell Me Why”, Neil Young’s song which we did as a country rocker. No Big Star or Posies songs this time, which meant that the focus was entirely on my own merits as a songwriter, which I felt was a real kudo for me. We also tackled songs that I don’t often play live: “You Become the Dawn” and “For Your Sake”.
Ben Martin, stage left, moved between guitar, Rhodes and synth/organ (he did an amazing guitar part, sort of echoing the string section, on “Any Love”).
Bernard Eder, stage right, incorporated guitar, trumpet, and melodica, and did lovely backing vocals (his part on “Death of A City” was absolutely beautiful).
Alex ‘Fire’ Tomann, the drummer added a beat to the last chorus of “Death of A City” that was totally unexpected and cool, and
Georg Winter, the bass player coped with my nitpicking and really picked out the nuances of the bass lines on my records. The owners of B72 were super friendly, they were there thru the whole day’s rehearsal and soundcheck, and made sure I had everything I needed in terms of liquids throughout the day and night. Thomas, the sound engineer was awesome, and the lighting guy, who I never got introduced to, was great too—he remembered my cue to keep a bright light on me during “For Your Sake” so I could read the words! Even the security guys were cool—one of them had his picture taken with me after the gig. And there were DJs on afterwards, too, so…this is a model of how things * can * be done well (PPC, you could learn a few things). In fact, you can pretty much tell how a club is run by the kinds of people they hire for security and the kind of training they give to them. I always thought the Crocodile Café and Neumo’s in Seattle had really friendly, reasonable security people who lived up to the promise of the job title—keep the assholes out, and keep the vibe inside happy. Even if you are an asshole one night, you drank too much or just fucked up one time (PMS or its male equivalent—it exists, trust me), you will be welcomed another time if you’re not causing trouble. The guys at the Showbox, which is in a slightly more intense location in downtown Seattle, were tougher but still reasonable—and that’s all you need to make a security guy into a human being instead of a robot on steroids.
The rehearsals were thorough enough that we didn’t finish until almost 8.30—and I realized I had a dilemma—I had to eat something, * and * I was the holder of a ticket to see Joan Baez, who was playing at the Stadthalle. I found a posse of friends and colleagues who were willing to put up with my dining parameters of something both good and fast, and went to a traditional Viennese restaurant, where I was almost immediately served a tartare. I believe the name of the restaurant was Prinz Ferdinand—I would definitely return under more leisurely circumstances. I left some money and my apologies, and headed to the Stadthalle.
The concert was well underway when I arrived. The box office was closed, but as I stood in the huge foyer of the place wondering what to do (I had bought the ticket online—auf Deutsch, at that), an usher came up to me and asked if I was Mr. Stringfellow? Teutonic efficiency roolz! I was lead to my seat and managed to see the last 4-5 songs. Just as she was wrapping up, I got out of Dodge to beat the rush for cabs and got back to the venue just after 10, on time for my 10.15 start.
I had an espresso and some water brought to the stage, my erstwhile bandmates got themselves sorted, and it was show time. I started off with the two new songs I’ve been playing, which is always a lot to ask from any audience, but they were timidly warm…I really wanted as much to be different about my 4th show in Vienna in just over a year as possible. Then the band came and we ripped into “Don’t Die” which kind of sounded more like Nirvana than KS, meaning, it rocked and I was really into it. Something great happened over the course of the evening—the applause got louder and longer after each song—until by the last songs, the applause was going as long as we stood there after the song—it was freaky, but I can’t say I didn’t dig it. I was the shakiest member of the group by far, so the songs were played with great solidity, and any errors that happened were probably barely registered by the patrons. I saw a lot of people singing along…I felt like a member of Good Charlotte or something…well…emphasis on the ‘or something’. My favorite bits included the aforementioned stuff from rehearsal, but also I thought the versions of “Let Me Do” and “Any Love” were particularly fantastic. During “Any Love” it felt like a real concert, there was something really confident about our playing and I think the song is pretty majestic in a full band setting…it didn’t sound like something that came together in an afternoon, that’s for sure. The crowd’s reception during the set meant the encore was a fait accompli, so we didn’t make ‘em wait too long. “Tell Me Why” was the closer, and became a bit of a jam. During a breakdown of that song, a very well groomed, well-dressed man came to the front of the stage and made a series of intense motions, signaling, “ok, you’re done, get off the stage”. I thought he worked for the club, so after the song I said, off mic, that I think it was unlikely the crowd was going to let me go. His bizarre, cowardly reaction made me realize that this was the typical ‘I’m on PCP’ guy, you can replace that with the typical ‘I’m the drunk guy’, they’re all the same—they think it’s all about them, they can’t stand that some skinny kid is getting all the attention, and they act like babies. This guy was telling me to get off the stage—man, if it was BJM he would left with 3 less teeth. I just said, on the mic, that I wasn’t stopping, and if he didn’t like it, he could leave. And security finally took his bad vibes out the door. I have sympathy for the insane, but not that much for the guy that can’t handle his drugs—no matter what drugs I’ve been on, I’ve never been the one annoying guy at an otherwise happy musical occasion, heckling or pestering the performers and making zero sense (on stage at my own show is another story!). So, I felt vindicated that for all the times my show has been disrupted by this kind of jerk: I finally scored a decisive, solid victory. He was forgotten, and I went on to deliver two more solo numbers, “It’ll Be A Breeze”, and “Solar Sister”,
Reinhold’s request—an energetic Posies fan who tried to sing along, but actually was singing virtually every word in the wrong order! It was sweet though, and everybody had a laugh at our exchange. And then it was done. Killer merch night—I sold more than one full box of CDs. What you don’t know is that I get killed by excess bag fees, so whatever I bring along on tour in terms of heavy plastic CDs, I am under tremendous pressure to convert into a lighter, paper form for the return trip. As it is I overestimated what I would sell on this tour and had one box of Soft Commands too many, which did contribute to a pretty stiff bill on my SkyEurope flight home.
After the show, the club owner refused even my drink tickets for the two glasses of wine that are my customary post show ritual, he insisted on buying them for me. The amazing news is that show was sold out—over 200 paid. I can’t thank my Viennese fans enough. And even crazy PCP guy, if you ever come back to my show off your drugs or on your meds, you are welcome, no hard feelings.
The next day was beautiful. I was not. My voice was hoarsened by my all-or-nothing vocal going-for-it at the show, I smelled like smoke, etc. I went for a long walk in the sunshine, parked myself at a café and read the Herald Tribune, and visited the Secession Museum, Vienna’s tiny palace to art contemporain. The ‘
Beethoven Frieze’ by Klimt is always something I marvel at—not just as a piece of art--although we musicians are flattered by the idea of the composer as St. George, prepared to slay the dragons that make man mortal, with art’s immortal ideas/ideals. But, in fact, the story of the artwork’s survival of two world wars is a marvel, and rather neatly supports the idea that the painting encapsulates—ideas, i.e. some things we cannot see, are in fact more durable than the atoms of the flesh and blood, and their transcendence of lifespan gives us the concepts of our past and our future.
And here’s to that future, mes amis.
Love
KS
Paris
