BANG, BURN.
Saturday night, I flew home from Berlin (see below). I cabbed home, the driver leaving the freeway to avoid a traffic jam that had brought us to a standstill; working our way via surface streets from the Porte d’Italie, I was home just after 8. Dom had no luck finding a babysitter for Saturday night, so we stayed in. One by one, we dropped off to bed. I watched Kurosawa’s Rashomon on DVD, until it finished at about 12.30. I looked forward to a good rest; I wasn’t due in the studio til noon on Sunday, and thus I could sleep 8 hours and still have time to have a Sunday brunch with my family. I listened for the sound of Aden’s breathing in the night, against the background of chatter from the busy cafes below. At one point she had a nightmare and yelped, but didn’t wake up—but I woke up, for a second, and then was deeply asleep again.
Dom woke me up. She was already busy assessing, preparing. I quickly came around and realized the severity of the situation. A familiar scorched plastic fume filled the air. It was the smell of a burning building. Directly across the small passage from us, on the same floor as our flat, smoke was billowing out the window that our windows look out on. The passage between us was just two car’s width across—so the building was probably only 15-20 feet away. Sounds far, but pace it out and imagine it on fire. It’s not that far. Our flat smelled awful, and quickly the smoke became so intense I could not see the building anymore, it was completely shrouded. Out the backside, flames erupted. Evil fireflies--embers and cinders, twirled in the air, menacing our flat. Time to go. I had laid out clean clothes for the morning, so I donned them. I never fully unpack a small black nylon handbag (a gift from REM’s promoter in Japan), so it was ready to go with essentials; I just added my shaving kit. I packed my computer and took all of our cash, and we dressed Aden, grabbed coats and left. We had knocked on all the doors, to alert the neighbors, seeing if anyone needed help getting downstairs. The streets were blocked off with a full battalion of pompiers. The gas company came to shut off lines (we shut off our gas valve before we left). Luckily, it had rained earlier—our building would be that much more resistant to the fire jumping across the street. And, it was no longer raining, so we weren’t getting soaked. We saw people in their bathrobes out on the street. We walked to a nearby hotel, upwind from the smoke. It was fully booked. The desk clerk called around and we found a room at another hotel just a few minutes walk from our place. I felt terrible sadness for the people in the building. We passed by our place on the way from the first hotel to the second, and adding to the strange mood was a screaming woman in her window, just kitty corner from our place, threatening to jump, with the already heavily taxed police trying to talk her down. Oddly, she was only on the second floor, but she was certainly in severe distress and adding to the general mood of disturbance. Our Passage was taped off. The street leading to our corner was taped off. Traffic was diverted away from the main street nearby. And, the vipers were already out: a guy came up and asked us a few questions while we stood on the corner—casing the buildings, it seemed.
OSLO, 12/2
I slept in for the first time in weeks, remember? It was fantastic. A Sunday should imply some rest, no? I had lunch with Sarah from the Revolver HQ, at like 3.30, and took the tram to Café Mono/central Oslo. Claus and I had dinner with Ragnar, who is one of our booking agents for Norway, planning Disciplines events for 2008. And then, I made my way down to Mono. Jon arrived, we sorted out the complicated payment methods for Norway, to divvy up the money from Saturday’s show, and we went on. The crowd was pretty sparse, esp. considering the night before was sold out, but I know from experience that Saturday night is pretty much a devastating experience (at its best!) in Oslo, and it’s mighty hard to get people out on a Sunday. Having said that, there were people there, and they were a great audience, and in a weird way, I thought this show was even better than Saturday’s show. We played lots of unusual songs (and worked in ‘Christmas’, the Fuzzy-funneled chestnut season chestnut). We did our best with bits of “Dancing Queen” etc. It really was more funny to play our own stuff, and tell our own jokes. Anyway, I will give the weekend a superb thumbs up!
I had a last drink after our 2.5 hour set, and headed back to the flat (Hans Jørgen, my flatmate, came to the show and had a very good time from the look of it). At 5, Claus picked me up and took me to the airport—he and Nanna and their architect (!!) were headed to Sweden to look at materials for their renovation (otherwise, I’d be at Claus and Nanna’s place all this time! but I do love my new address!).
I flew back to Paris, and went more or less straight into mixing Mateo’s album, which we’ve been working on since summer. Mixing, plus I threw a keyboard part on one song; had a guy come and play a cuica on another. A cuica is best known as a component of Brazilian music, tho’ its origins are African. It’s basically a coffee can with a drumhead, in the center of which is a metal post going into the can; you reach in and rub the post with an oily rag, and it squeaks when you have the right amount of friction (OK, stop laughing!)—the drum head and coffee can amplify it. It sounds like talking, or hooting, or, it can make animal sounds ranging from a wildcat growl to a tropical bird call. So, the days in the studio as usual shot by as I worked on getting mixes accomplished—pretty much working, sleeping, and trying to catch up on a few emails at night and a little shopping in the morning. Although I spent one morning using a rotary sander to remove paint from the door to my rental flat’s bathroom—the painter had been a bit too liberal in his application, and the door would no longer shut. It does now!
BERLIN, 12/7
On the 7th I re-blacked the tresses and organized the fringe with Patrick at Toni & Guy in Bastille; and went directly to the airport. Upon landing at Schönefeld, I emerged and was greeted by the lovely Mila, of “Fucking Pop” fame. We went straight to the venue, the venerable (yes, but the toilets * are * clean) Bang Bang Club—my guys navigated their way their eventually as well (after prob. $40 worth of calls on to my US phone!). We had quite a bit of time to wait around for things to happen, so we had a little meeting; and I met BBC’s fine staff—Ben, Marie, Ollie (Ollie is one of the owners and tonight was doing live sound for the bands!). I used their computer for email. Soon, we met Claudia—who I knew only on email. She had written to me about using a song in the film, her first feature length work, she’s making right now. I of course was honored, and suggested we meet just for meeting’s sake when I came to Berlin next (she missed the Bassy show, having just come from Jakarta, and not up on the dates of cultural events at home!). As it turns out, Claudia is a total gem, just a great person all around. She even put me up in her spare room—an impromptu query I made at 3am after the show—we were all booked in a Pension that would have us all in one room; the guys had to be out of there at 8 for their flight back to Oslo, and I would have been out on the street at check out time (11 in this case). As they had to get up early, they were ready to go early-ish (it’s all relative when a party is scheduled to end at 8am), and I wanted to hang at the Bang for more face time with my Berlin friends and new fans. So, I sort of looked at Claudia, and said what you say when you write it like this: “…?” and she took me in. I was able to sleep in til 1, and have great company besides. Her b.f. Paul is a musician and a delightful chap as well. Between Claudia, Paul and a good long chat with my friend Reza, I felt totally invigorated by my Berlin visit—and this is even counting the show! So, let’s talk about that.
We were sloppy as hell. And unknown. However, in about 30 seconds, the crowd, which had been content to watch
Hans Unstern (who has a fantastic accordion player, and had to revamp his set since his lead guitarist had badly knifed his own hand that day—I didn’t hear if it was accidental or not), was dancing, like on a 60s Beat Club set, and life was good. People jumped onstage to say bizarre things, offer me beer, and in general, we went over like a house on fire. I know, I know…Indie is as Indie is, and we are perhaps more…populist? Classic? Conventional? Than some, but, I think we transcend the limits—in fact, you could say that’s my mission. And it worked—we came, we blazed, and we thanked everyone in sight—and people loved it.
After show, I ducked down to the basement bar for a long chat with Reza—he is the manager for
IAMX, and managed to organize a sold-out US tour without so much as a release there. So, interesting to talk to, and a lovely person. So, I sort of missed out on the selling a few vinyls, shake a few hands kind of things. When I came upstairs, in fact, a young bespectacled boy named Florian told me that we in fact “sucked”.
I told him that I receive many demos from many people each month, many of which are out of tune, immature, amateur, whatever—and I have never told anyone they “sucked”. I always gave constructive advice or criticism, and in the end, who I am to say anything about something somebody is doing when they believe in it. He countered and told me that he didn’t think I was sincere—that I was just doing what I was doing “for the money”. What money? Well, I spent quite a bit of time talking to him. I didn’t dislike him, but I found some of his arguments circular/specious etc. He was friends with the next band (who were great, and lovely people),
The Audience. He said “they’ve been doing the same thing for 6 years—have you?” As if to say, I was jumping on a bandwagon, and their persistence was a sign of integrity. I just don’t think like Florian. I totally believe in what I do, and I believe in experimentation, change, and in the end…’going for it’ and fuck the torpedoes. I am expressly populist with the Disciplines. I want the message to be accessible to all. For my more esoteric leanings, there’s my solo albums, and the more Baroque moments of the Posies. I have always done exactly what I was inspired to do—and I think the commercial results speak for themselves—my successes are what they are, but they are not a (well-managed) campaign for chart domination. And hey, success and musical integrity are two different things. Critics adore (as do I) Feist—and she’s had songs in tons of commercials, and a charting single and album. Tons of hacks with total dreams of stardom audition for “Star Academy”, and * don’t * become famous, or even make it thru the door. You can be in it ‘for the money’ and never get there; you can have no commercial intentions at all, and suddenly find yourself Kurt Cobain. It has occurred to me that Florian may have been protective of his friends, and jealous that we were received well (tho’ music is not a competition). He may just a person with really negative views of the relation between art and humanity. He may be right. But, it won’t change my approach. Not one bit. Thanks, Florian, but you don’t own the intellectual high ground. You have a perspective, and it’s just that—an opinion, that has informed a perspective. And, something tells me that someone whose first words to a performer are “your band sucks” has some personality issues. It is not a sign of integrity to hurt others. It is perhaps a show of my own integrity that I took 15 minutes to listen to you, understand you, and not tell you get lost. Think about it. I welcome more discussion with you anytime.
Read a great review of the show in German/view photos
here******************************
Today we went back to our flat. It was fine; the smoke from the other building didn’t make our place uninhabitable. In fact, the burnt building was mostly intact—from the front you could hardly tell what had happened. There were pages and pages from books scattered about the street, charred around the edges, like when you make a faux-medieval manuscript/pirate treasure map. When we looked at the back of the building, you could see the evil stain of toxic smoke above the windows of the ruined flat. And incredibly, there were piles and piles of books. Comic books. Travel books. Ordinary, mostly. Sheet Music. School textbooks. All had been ejected from the flat—that was the primary fuel for the blaze. I would say there are easily enough books from the burnt flat to fill a construction dumpster.
On my way home from the studio I saw a few singed pages stuck to the wet sidewalk some 30 meters from the building. One was a series of exercises from a German language workbook; one depicted an Aztec pyramid. I returned to my flat deeply aware of the fragility of life, and grateful for the health and safety of my family and friends.
Love
KS
Paris
