OVER IT (ALMOST)
I was still laying pretty low on Sunday.
Lydia Lunch was in town, and called me to see if I wanted to come to her performance—the answer being: yes, definitely I would like to, but I am just not up for it. It’s too early in my recovery to really pull that kind of adventure off. She was playing in one of the suburbs, which require a bit more work logistically to get to and from—getting back after the show would really be a bitch, as there aren’t usually taxis there. So, I respectfully declined, and remained reclined.
On Monday I felt a glimmer of energy stirring in me; I didn’t have that sucked-dry feeling, like a magnet pulling me towards the center of the earth with a tireless, consistent drag. They turned the tractor beam off in my mattress. That’s not to say I felt *good*, mind you. But I felt like I could leave the house. I went to see a mid-afternoon screening of “No Country For Old Men”, which I found riveting and, well, nearly perfect. And in the evening, I dragged the ever-patient
Scott Greiner out to a program at
Le Reservoir (where I played on the first European tour for Soft Commands, way back in the dark ages of December 2004) called Le Reservoir Bleu, which is a live radio broadcast where artists with new releases perform short sets. Now, I technically was too cranky and sick to be there, but I was on the list, and
Cali was playing, I guess for the first time since his new record had come out. The club is small, and it was jam-packed. It’s free, and heavily promoted on the radio, so tons of people queue to get in. Scott and I found a good spot, standing along the wall towards the back—in case a hasty exit was even possible. It soon became quite clear that Cali was playing last. And, I wasn’t in the mood for the latest in major-label French
varieté artistes to schlep their wares in back to back sets. Perhaps it was my Krank-heit, but basically I found the music presented universally atrocious. Insincere, amateur, and tacky in a way that only the hyperinsulated hothouse of the French subsidized musicverse can produce. It’s like a swarthy 1980s L.A. without the Glam. FUK. Cali came on at last, after almost 2 hours of this shit. And played two songs! I was pleased to hear that his horn players copied some of the lines from my string arrangement for a particular song. But, oh my. I went straight home to bed.
On Tuesday I bravely went to Pilates. I wasn’t coughing so much, but I wasn’t really ready, but I wanted to be as in shape as possible for the shows coming up—pretty soon I will be too busy to go to Pilates at all. In the evening I met with the manager of Syd Matters, to talk shop. Thomas is his name. Very nice person, and low bullshit. He walked me into
Syd Matters’ sold-out show at
Café de la Danse (both Le Reservoir and Café de La D. are in my neighborhood, so these were good baby steps to start go out again on). SM were truly phenomenal. The band is highly versatile, constantly switching instruments, and the show builds and builds, from its
a capella opening to a kind of tribal jam (but a good one) at the end. Their music is really nice, psychedelic and folky (like, Syd must *really* matter to them). There are Radiohead, Pink Floyd, Nick Drake, and
Deus moments…odd lyrics, very touching and sweet tho.
Dom’s brilliant suggestion was to celebrate St. Valentine’s a day early. On the 14th, most restaurants would be packed, and would also be offering a special menu, meaning overpriced and less flexible. Even better, most restaurants on the 13th were likely to be empty as it was midweek and people were saving up for a big night out the next night. So, Dom & I had our dinner Wednesday night at
Carré des Feuillants, which was outrageously good. I had an entrée that were side-by-side eel things—a ravioli with smoked eel; a broiled piece of eel in a kind of foam; and sautéed
elvers. My main course were ludicrously delicate bits of
agneau de lait, alongside a bit of the
gigot cooked in a cube of clay. We had a lovely night out. Aden, who fell asleep at 7, never even knew she had a babysitter. It should be noted that Aden is so cool that even
her babysitter is a rockstar.
On Thursday I did what I should have done a week before. I went to see my doctor, who told me exactly what I already knew: I had bronchitis. I went and picked up my prescriptions. My doctor informed that there was a lot of bronchitis going around, exacerbated by extremely high levels of pollution this month. The heavy dose of antibiotics on the first day of treatment completely knocked me out.
OSLO, 2/15
Which was fine, as I had to be up at 6.45. I was leaving the house just as Dom & Aden were getting up for school. Aden was very unhappy that I was leaving…and me too; I was so used to being home--I had been in Paris for some 38 days, probably the longest time since Aden was born, when I took 2.5 months off from from working. We had been so happy in the predictability of our routines…and then, I was off. I did have the good fortune to actually catch a taxi on my street, instead having to walk with my luggage up to La Bastille. A good omen. I was so relaxed from my down time that despite the early hour I didn’t sleep on the plane at all. We landed in perfectly sunny conditions in Oslo, and I headed into town. This week I’m staying with Ole and Sarah, the team behind
Revolver Bar, my unofficial HQ. I’ll be playing there *three* times this week! Sarah met me at the train station, and we stopped by Bonnier Amigo, who happen to be the Posies/Big Star ‘s label in Scandinavia. I chatted with my man Morten while Sarah picked up some promos.
Then I dropped my stuff at Sarah’s place. I had to learn how to work around their horny cat, who also wanted to claw my brand new trousers, being all aroused and what not. I was so fragile and not used to traveling and post-homebody-shellshocked I wanted to cry, for no real reason. But we went to
Tim Wendelboe’s, and I made up for the uninspiring coffee I had at Orly that morning—the baristas at TW were psyched about the shows next week, too. So, life was good again.
I took the bus to the Disciplines show. The show was
Tiger of Sweden’s Oslo Fashion Week party, in a very new nightclub called
La Belle Solé. In the meantime, I was on the bus with various folk including a really messed up junkie—it seemed to be a kind of junkie holiday in Oslo that day, they were everywhere. He was right in the way of everybody boarding the bus, swaying in the aisle, trying to organize his stuff—which was a pile of cash, a produce bag with a couple of bananas in it, and his wallet, which had a preposterous wallet chain fashioned from a massive, like, moor a battleship, kind of chain. Serious, hardware-store, 3-inch-link chain. And this guy was not a dipshit gutter punk, he was sort of a generic worker guy, the kind of guy you’d work with one summer at a cannery. Was he young? Old? He had an atrophied baby face remarkably similar in its pursed-lipped way to Stephen Hawking’s; the rest of his body was broken and sway-backed somewhere in its late 40s, but he didn’t have any grey hairs and I had a sad feeling he was younger than I was.
I got off at the stop everyone had told me to, but nobody I could find--and I asked almost ten people--could tell me where Observatoriegaten was. Finally, a woman I asked not only knew the street but she knew the club—and it wasn’t more than a hundred feet from where I was—just out of sight around the corner. I entered and my band was already soundchecking, everybody feeling good. Except me. I had no idea if I could sing, or how I was going to muster the energy for a Disciplines show. The club was not a live music venue by any means—a tiny stage had been built for the occasion, and a small PA brought in. The club itself has three main environments: a fantastic little cubby hole of a bar in a tube-shaped room lined with wood paneling and bright red walls; parallel to that is the main room, where we were playing, which is mostly dark walls, except one side is brick—and of course, there’s half of a giant egg in the ceiling—it’s a light fixture, covered in gold leaf. Up some stairs, behind our stage, is another lounge with a ‘Grey Goose’ Vodka theme—so the walls have a black and white dead tree pattern. This whole lounge, which is open to the rest of the club, but also partially blocked by structural elements of the building, was our backstage. We ran our entire set during soundcheck, and I threw myself into it, but felt weak and I really didn’t know if I could pull it off. I was sore just from the soundcheck. Was I really doing a show?
We went and had dinner together, and then I went to Claus’ flat while he showered and changed. I just sat on his couch in the dark with my mouth hanging open, completely wrecked. We headed back to the club and the energy of the arriving crowd gave me a little lift. Eventually it was showtime, and the guys took their positions—people gathered, and the house (and I do mean house) music went off. I was about to clamber up there when Marius from Tiger told me to wait, as we had an introduction. So, I stayed in the wings. But, it took like 5 minutes for the introductor to arrive! This is an eternity under the circumstances, and Bjorn and Baard were just stranded up there. It was the head of the Tiger of Sweden office in Norway, a man of about 50 years, who eventually got up there and spoke Norwegian for 5 minutes or so. Then, it was rock time, and…lo and behold, I summoned god knows what from within, but I delivered. My diseased lungs were constantly deflated, but I was leaping, crawling, screeching…a maniac…naturally, this was a fashion week crowd, sort of glamorous, I guess…many of them probably would not be at another rock & roll show for the next year—usually these people would be listening to Amy Winehouse or Mika or something. So, we were really out of context (except for the fact we all dress in Tiger of Sweden gear) but, to be honest, they loved it! I love those moments when I jump off the stage and writhe around on some poor audience member, and nobody knows what to do…it’s so uncomfortable! But everybody was drunk enough to be a good sport, and I think we try very hard to mix our aggressive musical stance with an extremely welcoming and friendly attitude…it works, really well. The audience and we were all friends afterwards, and I spoke to all kinds of people after the show who loved it. The Tiger folks (our introductor included) were really happy--the ones we knew from Oslo, and the ones who had come in from Sweden etc. So it was a great night, and we played to many people who might never have heard us otherwise. But after the show, I was so tired…I mean, under normal circumstances that performance of mine would have been demanding, but in the condition I was in that day…it was a bloody miracle I made it thru at all, let alone actually delivered to that level—and sang in tune at full sterength! But I had to go straight to bed afterwards.
The next morning—hell, even now, 24 hours later, my ass was/is so sore it feels like I’ve been riding horseback on a saddle made out of golf balls. The muscle that holds the bottom of my ribcage and the top of my stomach together is sore too. And my bronchitis has graduated up to my left sinus. But I feel really happy. I coffee’d up at Tim Wendelboe this morning, then Baard picked me up, we grabbed Bjorn and his gear at the rehearsal place, and headed to Espionage Studios, to work on our album. Basically, Jon Marius has already pre-mixed the album, and now we’re going thru the songs one by one and making small changes etc. to make the final mix. We mixed ‘Children of the Sea’ which sounds HUGE—all the harmonies from Sherri and Stacey from
Eisley sounding great—also, the singer
Samsaya was recording in the same studio, and she and I did some shouty bits. This song sounds outrageous now. We also mixed ‘There’s A Law’ which ENORMOUS now; and worked a lot on ‘Oslo’—Bjorn played some very fancy guitar bits on it (and, while I worked on the mix of ‘Children’, he played a blazing solo on Samsaya’s record). It was almost done when, around 11.30, everybody was burning out and we went home for the night.
I’m sure I’m coming back…but right now, heading out…more to come.
Love
KS
Oslo
