7.30.2008
EL PUERTO DE SANTA MARIA, 7/20 Having stuffed my face at the house of Miguel, we slowly made our way into a couple of cars and headed towards the extreme southwest of Spain. Along the way, we stopped at Bolonya, (I can’t make a tilde in Blogger), a beach town where as it happens Dani Llamas’ family was renting a house. So we put in a bit of beach time, cleaned up, and pulled into El Puerto at about 8.30. El Puerto is part of a conglomeration of communities scattered about the spits and peninsulae at the mouth of the San Pedro. Cadiz (said to be the oldest city in Europe, continuously inhabited since the Phoenicians settled there, assuming it was the end of the world), San Fernando, Jerez, and El Puerto are among the communities that straddle the waterways here. El Puerto is part Arizona strip mall, part dusty backwater. It doesn’t look like much, and thus the unpaved road leading to Paco Loco’s home/studio/etc complex was quite unpromising. As we pulled up, parking was difficult, as a number of cars lined the tiny road. Vacant lots with ungraded terrain all around. We parked and entered a gate and found ourselves in a lovely little garden, the residence of Paco and Muni. Paco Loco is a legend in the Spanish music scene, having been part of various bands and a producer of countless albums. Over a decade ago, he met his wife Muni (Moony Loco??), when he produced her band, and eventually they found their current home and established a formidable musical base there. Paco has his studio in one building, crammed with vintage audio gear and instruments. There’s the residence, a one level, flat roofed ranch house shaped like an ‘L’, with plenty of room for the two of them to live and have office and chill out space. The roof of the building is in fact a terrace, although there’s not much to see from up there and they have so much terrace space in the garden it hardly seems worth the effort to climb stairs. In between the house and the studio there’s a small apartment for bands to sleep in. These buildings and a hedgerow out back enclose a small swimming pool, a garden, fruit trees and grass. Let it be said that Paco and Muni are incredibly kind and accommodating people. So, what Paco had done is set up a Sunday night garden party, with drinks, food, torches stuck in the lawn, a small stage, 30 or so friends, and me, playing! I can only describe the setting and the vibe as magical. Bats flitted over my head and en enormous orange moon rose over the hedge. Darkness fell, and I entertained for some 2 hours. I paused in the middle to help adjudicate a contest determining which guest had made the best Spanish tortilla, the egg/onion/potato omelet this is like a small cake, hence the name. One guest, being a huge Posies fan, jumped up to expertly play the guitar solo in Solar Sister, and Muni herself materialized at my side to join me on ‘Tell Me Why’. A fantastic evening, and no need to say, I fell into a profound sleep in the pitch blackness of the band apartment. The next day Miguel and his brother and another friend and I drove a couple of hours to Montilla, for a grand tour of the Perez Barquero winery. We were greeted by Jose Ruz, who gave us a wonderful tour and explained how Fino, Amontillado, Oloroso, Pedro Ximenez (my personal favorite, and I have had none better than the Perez Barquero 1905 Solera Fundacional) and their brandies are made. We had time for a tasting and a bit of shopping before I had to run to Sevilla airport and catch my flight back to Paris. Back in Paris I mixed two songs for A Life A Song A Cigarette, saw my doctor to get back on track after my cold, took a pilates class, played tennis, unpacked and packed. Headed to Orly with PLENTY of time on Wednesday. MADRID, 7.23 My flight ended up being delayed a couple of hours, no big deal as I was flying in one day in advance of the official Disciplines show. This night was a ‘just for fun’ night of cover songs, taking place in a basement nightclub called the Honky Tonk, with the band the Super Ratones, from Buenos Aires, appearing as the Super Agentes. I had gotten to know the SR’s via internet and phone, and over the last months had gotten them to sing and play on the Disciplines album, via the sending of audio files back and forth, and I sing on two songs on their soon to be released album. The SR’s also contributed an excellent rendition of ‘Going Going Gone’ for the Posies tribute. They are absolutely fine people, lovely guys all. I already felt I was meeting old friends by the time they picked me up at the airport this evening, even tho we were meeting for the first time in person. About half a million Argentines are living in Spain at any one time, and the SR’s have an extensive network to draw upon for things like crash pads, so Lisandro, the manager; Mario, the singer (who spent some of his childhood in Champaign IL, so speaks in absolutely accentless American English) and I had access to the gayest crash pad ever; meaning it was a delightful place to stay with the latest design elements and as neat as a pin. I had deemed it metrosexual to the point of bending the definition; they cheerfully confirmed ‘twas, a far, far, gayer thing, this lovely little flat in the suburbs. NTTAWWT! So, we stopped by and picked up the rest of the band and crew at the band’s official crash pad, the tiny flat they have rented for the month, and we all trucked down to the Honky Tonk, which backs into (natch) an Argentine restaurant, which made sure we were more pear-shaped going out than coming in, and slipped in the back door to the basement confines of the club itself, where the ‘Super Agentes’ blasted out covers of 60s tunes and more to the rather preppy clientele. I joined them for either backup or lead duties on such diverse items as ‘(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction’ and ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’…I was called up for duty on several Hollies songs, the common assumption being that a member of the Posies knows the Hollies’ work by heart, when in fact, after the intro riff of Long Tall Woman in a Black Dress and the chorus of Air that I Breathe I am rather useless. But it was great fun. MADRID, 7.24 Madrid, the city that shouldn’t be. No port, no great river to straddle, no strategic mountain redoubt; Madrid was just lucky to be equidistant from the frontiers, and give no home field advantage to, the unified fiefdoms that agreed at some point to be Spain. Its name comes from the Arabic conquerors who founded it, and was originally called ‘Mayrit’, or ‘land of many springs’. Er, ‘wind-blasted dustbowl’ should have at least been considered as a runner up. Maybe to a group of warriors straight off the Rub-al-Khali this area looked lush by comparison, but to my eyes the steel and glass bank HQs of Madrid serve as the world’s costliest tumbleweed deflectors. However, it is home to one of the friendliest musical environments I know of, Moby Dick. The Moby Dick club has seen now nine Ken Stringfellow performances—with Chariot in 1998; with the Posies in 1998, 2000 and 2005; with Saltine in 1999; solo in 2001 and 2004; and a White Flag/solo combo in 2003; and now the Disciplines. It should be mentioned my 2004 show there was an absolute career highlight, a packed house saw impromptu jams with Scott McCaughey and Mike Mills. The owner, Pepe Corral, has always been encouraging and cool. The club itself, yes it looks, inside and out, like a kind of ship. There’s a wooden skeletal whale and the curve of a section of lighthouse framing the stage. This show, in many ways, was pre-empted by the season. Even my appearance on the national radio was pre-empted by reports from the Tour de France (which a Spaniard ended up winning, of course). I knew that playing a club in Madrid in the middle of summer was a risky proposition—Madrid empties out at this time of year and many of my friends and colleagues were on vacation elsewhere--so I wasn’t as disappointed as you might think when in fact about 30-40 people were there to see us. After all, we were the support act, so bore no responsibility for the outcome! However, we more than rose to the occasion to deliver a bombastic, full on show. I even attempted to scale the dinghy that houses the soundboard. Other highlights included me singing in duet with a blind gentleman who managed to fake his way thru the words very convincingly; the Super Ratones singer Mario and drummer ‘Person’ joining us to recreate their harmonies on ‘Like So Many Times Before’—you haven’t heard this yet as it’s not on the Norwegian version of the album. We decided to go easy on the special guest stars and use the simpler mixes of the songs on this one. But no doubt the Spanish version will feature the SR guys. We’re working on making that release a reality soon. Anyway, we tore the paint off the walls, we rocked so hard, to tell you the honest to dog’s truth (and there was a seeing eye dog there, that * didn’t * belong to the blind man). A clear indication of the warmth of our reception was that we sold over 20 CDs, some two thirds of the paying audience became converts right on the spot. And the fun continued from there—the Super Ratones did their set, during which I joined them for the two songs on their album I contributed vocals (and even lyrics) to. So, I had to read a cheat sheet to remember all the Spanish bits but I held on! We also did ‘Going Going Gone’ together, and for the grand finale, the Disciplines and Super Ratones merged for the last encore (oh, I almost forgot the first encore, when I had to fake my way thru another Hollies song!) for an epic version of ‘Shadow of Your Doubt’. This was a great, warm, night, and the people that were there got more than their money’s worth to be sure. And, I was extremely pleased to get to know the Super Ratones, they are top class people to a man, and I am hoping we get the chance to play with them in Argentina next year—we’re working on it, let’s put it that way! BARCELONA, 7.25 We had no problems getting up and getting ourselves to the train station on time; I had booked a hotel for us for convenient access to Atocha. The train was packed, but it was comfortable; I recognized the spacious toilets with the futuristic sliding door from the trains I took in Germany with White Flag this year. We rolled into Barcelona Sants and were quickly met by Gemma, our publicity street team commander, and a film crew who would be shooting us non stop while we were in the city. We wrangled some cabs, who took as near to the hotel as they could, and we wound our way into the neighborhood off La Rambla where the club and hotel were situated. Remember how sick I was last week? Well, my guys had all gotten ill before coming to Spain. But the July sun was good for their spirits, and they seemed to be getting better after a night of rest in Madrid (it was neither a late show nor an early morning). So thru Gemma’s assistance and our dead reckoning, we chose the correct brances of the spiderweb of streets and spilled out on to the Placa Reial, home of Sidecar (which I have chronicled here with my great solo show there in 2004 and the amazing Posies show there last year). When we stumbled upon La Placa I had no idea which side we were on, but by following the edge we came upon the club and went into the basement. It was great to see the staff, all very friendly guys, and soon Mono (the Spanish, not the UK or Japanese Mono’s) arrived and we helped drag their gear down the steps. Many friends stopped by the soundcheck to say hi, and we were definitely on form already—the soundcheck had a small audience, and we rocked it. We then had a long and amusing interview for H Magazine, and then we had some time to chill. I say chill, but actually we went with the film crew to stuff our faces with tapas. Great guys (who became fans during the show). Back to the club, we were very pleased to find it nice and full—Sidecar is tiny, so a little goes a long way, but we had nearly 100 people there. Mono was in progress, and they of course played too long, but people seemed to enjoy it, and their manager, who happens to be a very good looking woman, and I think hears the word ‘no’ about once a year max, was absolutely resolute in hear reassuring me that them playing too long, and us going on late, was no big deal. Well, in fact, she was right, in the end. But still, we hurried to get their stuff off the stage (at least the stuff we weren’t using!) and get going about 15 minutes later. We had a number of things work to our advantage. We were rested, but not cold—we’d played the night before. We were sober, but not TOO sober; we had a glass of wine or two before the show at dinner, but cut the edge with café afterwards. We had friends in the audience (Carlotta and Olivia from H Magazine, who are absolute loves; Julien, the drummer I’ve worked with on sessions in Paris was there; and more). And, there was a gang of Norwegian students, all cute teenage girls brimming with energy, who went apeshit from note one. All of this added up to a very, very, easy audience to win over, and we were prepared to the highest possible level. And the tiny stage at Sidecar (so comfortable as to feel to me like home field advantage) was a great lens for focusing our freak. The show was shit hot, an explosion, an audience-jumping, ‘where the fuck did he pull that confetti from?’, sing-along, two-encore MOTHERF***ER of a show. And it’s all on video! The poor guys from Mono, they were trying to be positive, but you could see they felt like the queso grande before the show, and were pretty much humbled by the mighty gladiadores from Noruega. It was fucking huge, this one. After this show, I felt so good, I didn’t want to fuck it up, so I did the smart thing and ordered a beer, because I loathe beer. It meant I could barely choke down a third of it, and then I had to get out of there. My bandmates were already drunk! I told them not to forget the gear, and when we had to leave the hotel the next morning. I said bye to my friends and walked back to the hotel; watched a bit of the Rogers cup (Murray vs. Djankovic), watched the terrifying film ‘American Blackout’ about the manipulation of, well, the disenfranchisement/disqualification of, potentially millions of black voters/votes in the last two presidential elections, and the witch hunt of Congresswoman Cynthia McKinney. Please watch this film NOW, and help work towards free and fair elections in our country—we have spent billions trying to bring them to Iraq, and after watching this film, you will likely conclude that our elections stink. We are setting a piss poor example, to put it bluntly. Tho I should feel shame, I felt more of a cold knot of fear watching this film. We survived a coup d’etat…and it’s not over yet. PALMA, 7.26 I had so much fun NOT feeling like shit this morning. I missed out on nothing more than Bjorn and Claus getting in a fight over who would carry which piece of equipment back to the hotel, which culminated in Claus jumping on Bjorn’s guitar case, Bjorn kicking Claus’ snare case, and Claus dragging his metal cymbal case thru the streets of Barcelona at 4am. I poured these sorry assholes into a van and got us to the airport; then, expert tour manager that I am, got us in the VIP lounge. We arrived, after a flight delay, in the late afternoon, to the enormous Palma de Mallorca airport. Perhaps the largest airport I have been in? Well, evidently Hong Kong is bigger, but for the size of city that PMI serves, it seems MUCH bigger than is warranted. You walk for miles to the gates (99 of them). After gathering our stuff, we were greeted by the very tall and thin (think a hipster Spanish Abe Lincoln, as a vegan) Fede, from the free events guide Youthing magazine, who were the organizers of this nights ‘veredena’, which is a village fete, usually held in the main square of a smaller village (like the veredena the Posies played in Sa Pobla on Mallorca in 1998). We went in a van with some hippies and a dog to the site, and dropped off our gear. The site of the show was at the far end of the very long Parc de la Mar, which runs along between the old part of the city and the waterfront, although the main road out of town cuts the park off from the seawall. But, going into the park towards the historic center of Palma, you would come against the massive fortifications around the cathedral, and eventually spill out into the old city. We then headed into town, and were dropped as near as we could drive to the Hostal we were staying in; here we met Dominique, who had flown in late the night before. The Hostal Brondo is a winding, rickety old collection of rooms, that must have been a super cool apartment when it was made. Now, it’s a sweet and friendly no frills pensione, shared bath on each floor, no phones or TVs in the rooms, kind of place. In literally 5 minutes Baard had managed to lock himself out while taking a shower! Next we needed to eat—Claus, being diabetic, had to actually eat before we ate! But when we did eat, we ate well. Fede, being vegan, had a hard time advising us, or actually a hard time watching us…and in the place we settled on, Claus and I ate a 500g steak! Oh, but it was heaven. Now, after a steak like that, the main thing is…must…not…sleep…we did our soundcheck, and then we had some time to kill. So Dom and I wandered, and found a little café to chat and gossip and catch up. We came back to the parc and the opening band was just going on, I knew one of the guys from Los Valendas, and this band was mysteriously called ‘Sitdownpussy’. I think it was a political reference, that a cop said that to a reveler celebrating the death of Franco, goes the anecdote. But, still…anyway, they did Wilco covers and such. They were so laid back they seemed in danger of wandering off in between songs. But it was good the sound team had them to experiment on! By the time we were going on about 400-500 people were in the parc, enjoying drinks, watching bats flit overhead. Of course, even tho we were subject of great promotion before the show, they had no real idea of what we were about, and when we went on…woah, Nellie, they were scared shitless. Being a free show, you had the token drunk annoying guy who wanted all the attention for himself, but I am good at gently deflecting these types. I gathered the crowd in, and of course went mobile. I was on the DJ platform behind the crowd; I dumped the entire bar over at one point—most patrons were away but a few drinks were spilled so I ran back and gave everyone drink tickets! I danced, I crawled, I got the people jumping—a LOT! Shirt came off, a girl was fanning me with her oriental fan while screaming at the same time! We did encores, including ‘Flavor of the Month’ ‘Shadow of Your Doubt’ ‘Oslo’ ‘Hand of God’ and more. It was an AMAZING show, with a superb crowd. Neither side will forget the other for some time, methinks. I was so tired when it ended, I had to go to bed straight away. I reminded the guys of the golden rule of touring—never leave the venue! You will always suffer if you do. They didn’t listen, and gave up halfway (maybe) thru a 10km hike to some shitty disco or other. The next day was spent in Deia, a little community hugging a cove and ravine on the steep side of the island; Baard has a cousin living there; she and her husband and two lovely kids spent the day with us at the beach there. The guys flew back to Oslo that night; Dom and I spent the next couple of days checking out the fantastic restaurants in the city—namely, Bar.co, out on one end of the bay of Palma; and the gastronomic highlight, the Refectori, a gorgeous setting in an old convent, no turned zen garden. Incredible food and a stunning setting. The rest of the building is a very discreet hotel with an emphasis on modern design, but not in a cold way. We felt guilty in a sense as we had the place to ourselves that night—not one other patron was dining. A waste, but the effect for us was magical. We had each night the same wine, a 2004 Pago de Maria, produced on the island, largely comprising of the ‘mantonegra’ grape. I haven’t been able to find much about it online, so I have to suggest that you search this bottle out if you are on Mallorca. Extremely well balanced, with a rich, dark liquorous fruit; it’s a dense and decadent red that might remind you of some of the burlier Napa Syrahs and Cabs. If you have more info on this wine, please write me! ken@kenstringfellow.com Of course we visited the beaches too; the last day we were there we headed to the Nixe Palace hotel, with the intention of lunching in their gourmet restaurant; it wasn’t open for lunch. So, we had crappy bar food in the poolside lounge, and then went to spend the day at the stretch of beach in front of the hotel. The king has a small residence overlooking the same beach. When it was getting near to departure time, we headed back up to the pool, showered there, dried in the sun, and changed in the bathroom. Ready to go, for the price of a cheap (sort of) lunch, the rental of two chaise lounges (€9,50) and two cortados we had the use of a five-star hotel for an entire day. Being that this was yet *another* honeymoon for us, I was so sad to leave Dom, but I was able to see her off at the gate, since my flight to Oslo was just leaving a few gates down. I was in the first row of my SAS flight, which meant extra perks, like the drunk Norwegian holiday goers could spill their empty beer cans on me. Lightning was tearing huge rents in the sky as I took my €190 cab ride to Claus’ (the aiport express train had stopped running by that time). Book of the year: as sad as I was to say farewell to Mason & Dixon, I have been eagerly devouring the late Tristan Egolf’s “Lord of the Barnyard” which is an absolutely gleeful teardown of the fat underbelly of America, anyone who even briefly suffered at the hands of hillbilly hellraisers or thought their evolutionary line of rational thinkers was in danger of being snuffed by devoluted cannibals with gun racks will feel a modicum of gratification here, and certainly will laugh outloud at the many zingers and inventive slurs thrown about here. Highly recommended. That the man lived only two produce three books…the mind reels. I feel like I could have known him, being that he was also a musician, lived in Paris…well, that’s not much to go on but I sure would have *liked* to know him. Love KS Oslo
7.19.2008
Check out these great photos from Buktafestival go to http://bukta.no/gallery/ click on 'Bukta 2008 Torsdag' and click to page '6 of 11' then you click on the first image you see of us, and you can then click thru the enlarged images. Great! Love KS Malaga
With all the stress of last week--the cancelled show, the nearly missed show, the late nights with shows and travel and early mornings and all that....well, I started to get sick after the last show. I spent Monday-Wednesday laying as low as possible; working out of our record label offices during the day, and getting to bed by as early as 9pm in Claus' amazing house. Meanwhile, he laid sod, planted roses and such. On Wednesday morning he and I went to P3, the station that has been arguably our biggest supporter in Norway, for a morning interview--8.30, to be precise--and they asked me to do a verision of 'Oslo' on their beautiful Steinway. How could I say no? Even tho I had never played the song on the piano before...so I picked an easy key for fingering and singing, and did it live on air...it turned out very nice! A couple of slight stumbles but they are part of the charm. Since then, P3 has been playing that version as well as the album version in heavy rotation... TROMSO, 7/17 This show was truly wicked. The Bukta festival is held in a lovely spot about 15 minutes out of town from Tromso. Tromso is arctic, but in summer the woods are exploding with wildflowers in purple, Queen Anne's Lace, and lots of greenery amongst the birch trees. Think of Monet's WaterLilies and you get the intensity of the colors. Tromso is on an island, and the festival site is on the water of course--in fact there's a perfect crescent of beach at the backstage area. Ran into many friends--the third time, as predicted, I saw the Posies former TM Menko, who was doing sound for Woven Hand. And my friends from the Patti Smith group, incl. Tony, bassist on much of 'Touched'. So it was in this inspiring atmosphere, in the dazzling sunlight of an arctic summer night, that we did our headlining set on the second stage of Bukta festival. We razed the place. Seriously! It was hellacious. Another amazing crowd, singing along, jumping up and down with me. We really went for it. It seems these shows have been going so well I don't have much to write about except 'amazing' blahdy blah...we almost need a less than amazing...ah, read on TONSBERG, 7/18 We were up way too early for anyone's good. I had a couple of glasses of wine with Tony, PSmith's sound engineer Emery, and PSG guitarist Jackson (Patti's son). The intensity of the Bukta set, the fact that I didn't successfully defeat my cold despite resting all week--throw a little aftershow wine and talking and you have the perfect recipe for f***ing my sh*t up. I was super croaky all day. So I did my best to not talk at all, except I am the tour manager. After the flight, we drove into Oslo, got a trailer, stopped in at Tim Wendelboe's for a perfect macchiato, loaded up the gear, and drove 2+ hours (incl some awful traffic) to Tonsberg. Tonsberg's quiet country arm, Notteroy, is the hometown of my stepmom, and also of Lise from Briskeby. I know the area well, having just spent the weekend there with my family last summer. Our show was part of the Slottsfjell Festival, a pretty big festival for Norway..mostly big Norwegian acts, but also this year had Stereolab and Lethal Bizzle for international entertainment...but what we played was more like the afterparty, but it was public. Called 'Kastelnatt', it was a multimedia extravaganza held in a huge abandoned factory. Sounds like a gas, yeah? It should have been, were I not feeling like cold dogshit. We soundchecked and I could barely croak out a song. Uh oh. We had to rush after soundcheck to the main part of the festival, a 10 minute drive, and ran to get to catering before it closed at 8. Oh, except it closed at 7. The weird thing is that all the food for catering and the public were being cooked in the same place--it was a massive barbecue. So we couldn't see why they were acting as if there was no food left--behind catering were about 10,000 roasting chickens and hamburgers. OK, they finally got us some food, but we weren't allowed to have beverages. Hey, thanks! I went back to the hotel and slept for some 4 hours. I was up at 1.15. That's a weird feeling. I gargled some warm salt water. I was starting to get scared. Could i sing at all? I made sure my stuff was all packed and ready to go, and walked downstairs with some records under my arm. The bar was raging in the hotel. I walked up and asked for hot water, and made a tea, and strode on. Out the back of the hotel, and crossed the channel that divides Tonsberg in two, via a graceful footbridge. It was just drunk Norwegian soup everywhere I went. I was trying to be invisible. The flow of people walking around wasted in the night was converging on the Kastelnatt. We were supposed to be onstage at 2--as I walked in to the complex it was 1.50, my phone was ringing. I went backstage and grabbed the CDs I had stashed, and made my way into the room we were playing. 500 plus people waiting. Shit shit shit. Everyone asked if I was OK? Not really, I said but I would try. The band went on. I followed. I started the show saying I was sick, and I would try my best but I didn't know if I could sing. But I was ready to give it my all. And in fact, I did. The first couple of songs were hard, my voice was careening to the wrong notes but I was determined to go on. Finally it settled into a rough but usable kind of tone, and in fact once I stopped thinking about my voice, it was pretty much fine. Now, it was a full moon, and these were people who had been drinking for probably 8-12 hours. So, in one way, many people were weird and hostile, but in another way, many people were ready to be entertained and didn't miss the finer points that my voice was falling short of. The hostile bits would be things like--a guy with that psycho I-am-a-drunk-man look, kept offering me beer. I respectfully declined. Later, when I was in the crowd, which was going absolutely nuts, BTW, we were jumping so much I actually thought people might get hurt, the same psycho beer guy poured his beer on my head. In my eyes. Now, was he being generous, or was he offended I didn't drink his beer? We'll never know, but I will have his beer scent in my clothes for days to come. Also hostile: the guy who was screaming in the front row, kept wanting the mic, and after the show wanted a free CD because he 'sang along'. I said, I hate to say it but we actually charge money for these things. He told me to fuck off! This is a classic example of the drunk guy who suddenly thinks the whole night is about him. Notice I say drunk guy that's not a sexist accident of language--the girls don't get so aggro. Now, those were the rotten apples but the rest of the bushel of people at our show were actually darlings, and the Oslo singalong was insane. To remain unbowed by my voice i insisted we do not one song but two in the encore--No Vacancy, which is really hard to sing, and Dropped by the Hand of God, which we haven't played in months. I was disappointed that I wasn't at my best, but the more I think about this show, the better it seems that it was. I think we did a great job, and people loved it. Er, after the show I had to run back to the hotel, grab my stuff and get in a van, with Aussie hipster teen sensations Operator Please (who were at the show and loved it), and drive 2 hours to Oslo airport. Fuck that was hell. I smelled like nasty beer and was soaking wet. Oh, I forgot to mention that in the second song, I gesticulated wildly and bashed my hand on Bjorn's guitar, blood streaming down my hand the whole show. Punky. It was a festering mess by the time I woke up on the van seat as we pulled into the airport. MALAGA, 7/19 I checked in for my flight. I was told I would have to pay extra for my guitar, but that this was done at the Sterling ticketing office which didn't open til 6am. And then I was handed my boarding pass and the tag for my guitar. So you know what I say? Fuck that. I dropped my guitar at special handling and went on my merry way. The flight ended up being delayed 45 min. but finally we could board, and I fell promptly asleep. Remember my untreated wounded hand was oozing blood all this time. I emerged feeling basically OK when, after waiting forever for my luggage, I came out of the baggage claim at Malaga airport. Among the many drivers and tour group operators holding up signs was one chauffeur holding a sign for 'Ms. Marla Maples'. Miguel, my host, was there to receive me. I felt that the pressure was off--but now I *really* didn't know if I would ever sing again! Did I go past the point of no return last night, and get further out with the brutal after show travel? I decided there was nothing to do but relax. We went to Miguel's place, and his architect father and he and I sat down for a glass of Pedro Ximenez. Well, how bad could I feel at that point? We went to a pharmacy to get stuff to treat my cough and bandage my hand. Then we had a 3-hour lunch by the beach, with fried everything. Sardines that are roasted over what looks like burning driftwood, calamares, gorgeous gazpacho. A few of Miguel's friends joined us and after a cortado he and I pulled up on a stretch of typical Malaga beach--which no one in Malaga likes, they will all tell you the beaches are awful here. Well, I wasn't going to complain. The sand is dark grey, which means it gets extremely hot. It was about 90F, and direct sun. I put on sunblock, and dozed a bit. The Mediterannean is cold here, and of course filthy. But I swam (sorry, hand). Back to the flat to have a bath and nap for a couple of hours. I was pretty worried about this show, but also trying to be philosophical and calm about it. We went to the venue, a little bar called Siglo XII, and set up the gear and soundchecked. I could sing, a little rough, but it was functional. I went and hid backstage while Dani Llamas, my support act for these Spain shows, played his set. You know what? He has amazing songs. I kept thinking they must be covers as they were so freaking good. Miguel played guitar with him, and I stayed backstage on a couch enjoying the music from afar. My turn. I went out to the small stage and helped get things in place, and then I was ready. I put the mic down in the midst of the crowd, and just tore into it, my voice was husky but super emo. In fact, I really liked how it sounded. I could still hit the notes, and even sing loud (I played most songs in a lower key tho). Eventually the PA actually stopped working, and while they set up another one, I even did what I had thought impossible--sang without using a mic. It was intense! But it was a really great show. The second PA gave me shocks when I was playing guitar so I did several songs without a mic, then went back to the piano. At one point in the mic-less guitar part, I did Solar Sister, and the entire place, out of nowhere, was singing the guitar solo when I got to that section of the song! Awesome! So, in the end, this was a great show, and my voice had a kind of freaky intensity that my normal, glass-pure tones don't get, so I was into it... Love KS Malaga SPAIN
7.16.2008
7.14.2008
7.13.2008
ALL OUT, ALLIED OBSERVERS, UN-ALIEN SHORES Check out this website with some great, live-with-no-audience acoustic Posies performances, filmed in Paris last year. www.iformusic.comThis theme of this week was in many ways one of travel-related debacle after debacle. I should mention that for me, to cancel a show, because I can’t make it there, is like shooting a dog. It’s such a distasteful affront to my commitment to professionalism, perhaps the most defeating and demoralizing experience I can have in music. It is with extreme sorrow that I had to face the fact that my show in Barcelona this week became impossible for me to attend, due to matters far beyond my control. Now, by way of compensation for my own battered psyche, I can happily report that The Disciplines’ shows this weekend in Norway were extraordinary, we’ve taken yet another huge leap as a well oiled fighting unit, combat hardened and simply furious rock machine. And, our audiences here in Norway now know our songs, it was a bit too soon in Haugesund last month, but these shows had plenty of people singing along—and while a show between us and strangers can be a great meeting of two open minded sides, there’s a beautiful thing about playing to people actually looking forward to hearing you play, and being able to build on a ground that’s gone past the opening stages of familiarization. Most of the week I was working hard in my newly reimagined home studio, mixing A Life A Song A Cigarette. I would work til about midnight—quietly, after 10 p.m., mind you—and either send a mix off via email that night or in the morning after giving things a quick listen and working on some details. The band would listen at their various homes or what have you, discuss amongst themselves, and get back to me with either an approval or small things they’d like changed. To keep on pace I had to work hard, moving on to a new song each day. To do a proper mix, with the level of detail I like to pursue, takes a good 8-12 hours, for me. Best scenario is when I have a light schedule, am at home, and can pick at a mix over the course of a couple of days, coming back to it every few hours; this allows me perspective, and lessens ear fatigue. But in this case, I had to crank it out. I felt like in a way this kind of trial by fire was really good for my skills, and the mixes seem to be turning out great---the band is happy, that’s the important part. I haven’t time to really review my work—as soon as they say aye, I move on to the next song. Remember, in these days I have to have a life—I still have to eat, sleep, shop for supplies for my travels, pack, go to Pilates, see my therapist, check emails, stay on top of managing/tour managing Ken Stringfellow/Big Star/the Disciplines/the Posies, and in theory, be a part of my family. The nice thing about working from home is that I can choose when any of the above needs to be a priority, and do it. I did manage to get out with Aden and Dom and go the park one morning, now that school is done, and we had a brief patch of dry weather. While I was there, as often happens I ran into my neighbor and friend Xavier, of Tahiti 80/Axe Riverboy reknown, there with his daughter who is about Aden’s age. Xavier, Dom, Axe Riverboy drummer Julien had a quick apero one evening as well, across the street, while I took a breather from mixing. I was also profiled, followed, filmed and gave a private tour of my Parisian life for an upcoming feaurette for time.com, the online version of Time Magazine. Writer Grant Rosenberg is doing a series of featurettes on American expats living in Paris, and how the change in scenery has affected their work, personal life/lifestyle, etc. Dom photographed me for an ad for Lauten Audio microphones… These items to run in the coming months, tba. On Thursday, after having croissants and café in the sunshine near the park we where Aden plays (Aden has gone with the grandparents for the summer, and is now stationed on Ile de Re, much to her delight), I headed up to Bastille to get a taxi to the airport. Usually there’s a few waiting, but this time, there were none, and 3 or 4 people waiting. Now, I had extra time, but…20 minutes later, no cabs had come, and no free cabs passed us. One came, and then another 10 minutes, during which time I ordered a cab. There was a wait, but then, during the wait four cabs arrived and I got in, sharing the cab with the woman behind me in line who was also going to Orly. From there, we made almost zero progress—after 45 minutes we hadn’t even made it to the edge of Paris. The trip normally takes 20 minutes, and this time it took almost two hours. They closed the flight and turned me and another similarly delayed guy away. I was furious, but, what could I do? No more flights to Barcelona from Orly that day. The only other flight leaving that day left in under two hours—from Charles De Gaulle, meaning, about 3 times further than I just traveled, and I thought, there’s no way I could make it in the current traffic conditions. What caused those conditions? There were much greater numbers of cars on the road, with holiday travelers getting out of town in advance of the Bastille Day long weekend; as luck would have it, two accidents took place along the only routes from Paris to Orly airport, and traffic ended up being backed up all the way back into the city, for dozens of miles. With much regret, the promoter and I decided to postpone the show, we are looking at dates in September and will announce a new date soon. I had a sad and sorry lunch in the airport and cabbed back home, defeated. I went into my personal lemonade factory and did what any sensible person would do—got back to work, and mixed another song for ALASAC, and did revisions to a previous mix. This occupied me until midnight, and I got some sleep. STAVERN, 7/11 I headed, with three hours of extra time factored in, to Orly, at the crack of dawn to catch my 9.50 flight to Oslo. Yes, I originally had purchased that day travel from Barcelona to Sandefjord, but that ticket had to be chucked out the window, a write off. I purchased from the airport the day before a ticket on Norwegian, which was more expensive than usual, but, really, in light our fee for a festival, not all that much, more in line with a typical flight on a major carrier. Of course, the same traffic problems weren’t happening at 7am when I left the house, so maybe it was overkill on my part but I wasn’t going to take any chances. In fact, a rare event happened—an available taxi, who do their best in Paris to avoid picking up passengers at all costs—you’ll find a theme in France that most business find your patronage a huge inconvenience, and will do anything they can to avoid selling you what you need, taking your order, answering your question, etc. Recall the bank employee with a pained expression when I enquired about opening an account who told me in broken and hesitant English “We don’t…touch…the monies”. In other words, as a bank, they do exactly what? Exist, pay salaries, and pray for rain, evidently. So, it was a pleasant surprise when a cab, seeing me laden with computer bag, small travel bag, and a guitar, trudging in the direction of Bastille and, my arms busy with the conveyance of objects, doing my best eyebrow semaphore, actually pulled over and took me in. Everything comes with its price, however, and my cabbie was not an ordinary cabbie. Spotting a colleague in his midst, he told me he was a singer, and proceeded to sing for the journey to Orly. It was actually pretty fun. His side job was a company making a kind of audio greeting card—a CD with a booklet in which you can write your personal message; the CD has, usually three tracks—the same song in French, English and as an instrumental so you could sing your own version, live, like he was doing. The themes were of course, birthday, ‘maman’, etc. He also had a number of tracks of rock and roll numbers, done with, you know, very obvious drum machine sounds, sung by children. Not R&R standards, but, I got the impression these were his compositions. The lyrics were a little hard for me to follow, and the CDs kept skipping, but it was, you know…fun, but, also when we pulled up to Orly, he insisted I listen to about 4 more songs! My life was flashing before my eyes. He made sure to tip himself the with my change, for ‘a little café’ and at last I was released. Flight: uneventful. Phew. Arrival to airport: smooth. I picked up some snus and whiskey for Baard, and got my bags and headed to take the train to Larvik. I knew the timetable and was in good reach of making the 13.08 to Larvik. I announced my intention to buy a one way ticket to the guy at the counter, and he told me there was a problem, and that trains headed south were stopping in Lillestrom, where the passengers would board a bus, be driven to another city, and we would resume the train journey from there. I see. Furthermore, because of system demand (guess what—I had just barely escaped the biggest travel weekend of the year in France to arrive at the biggest travel weekend in Norway’s commencement), the buses were over capacity and there was no way to tell how long we would be waiting for one in Lillestrom. Uh oh. I had come *this* far, only to miss ANOTHER show? Screw that. I would ride a fucking bike if I had to. My bandmates, assuming all was normal, were almost in Stavern already by car—they had to leave early, knowing how awful the traffic would be (they weren’t wrong). I investigated buses, taxis ($500 to Stavern), mixture of any of the above. Bus seemed reasonable, and there was one leaving in just a few minutes. I went out to the place where that particular bus was to depart from, running into other bewildered former Flytoget customers. Well, it was soon obvious that the hundreds of defrayed train passengers had the same idea—and we as a group turned and saw down the way about 600 people waiting for buses at another spot, and realized our bus was surely requisitioned for emergency duty. Thus, screw this, also. I got in a cab. I knew no trains were able to head south from Oslo, so I had the cab take me to the bus terminal, I would take my chances. Upon arrival, I found there was bus going all the way to Stavern, leaving in 20 minutes. This trip takes about 2.5 hours, normally. It took longer—an hour longer, as we hit horrible, standstill traffic snarls twice during the journey. I made increasingly frantic calls to the festival, but I did make it, finally, at about 18.30. I found out that luck was on our side in that the festival was running about 30 minutes late, and that would give me time to have a barbecued steak, chat with Norwegian dance pop star Bertine Setlitz, floss the roasted corn out of my teeth, and walk over to our stage; meanwhile Danish music legend Kim Larsen (author of ‘This is My Life’ by his band Gasoline, as covered by White Flag) was revving up. I turned a corner and saw our magnificent stage set up—Claus’ super mod, black metal flake, double bass drum kit, totally worthy of Keith Moon (check out the ‘!’ on each kick drum head), and our absolutely enormous SMOKING KILLS backdrop. Wow! I was really excited. We did a little line check, and there were fans already getting in position. As I mentioned above, what made this show special was that for the first time, a good portion of the audience knew our songs and were singing along with many of them…a very amazing feeling, let me tell you. People were jumping, spilling their beers, getting super into it. And we played perfectly well, just as natural as could be. After the show, I drank free champagne in the VIP bar, which gave a perfect vantage point from which to view the stage we just played, and took in the next band, Animal Alpha, who are really quite incredible. More or less modern heavy metal, or whatever you want to call it, with an unbelievable female vocalist, relentlessly delivering screams that sound like your eardrums are being torn like cheese cloth; she also can delicately whisper and coo. Intense! I got so scared from their intensity, I stopped counting my glasses and got a wee bit tipsy. LAKSELV, 7/12 Oh, how it hurt to get up at 4 a.m. Did I even sleep? It’s hard to tell. We drove to Oslo airport, the band had all crashed at Claus’ lovely home, parked and checked in. I had suggested getting there earlier than the normal one hour margin, and it’s true that even at 6 a.m. the place was a madhouse. However, most Norwegians are not going on vacation in Norway, so when we headed out to the domestic terminal, the place was empty. We had quite a bit of downtime before we boarded the two hour flight to Alta, followed by a 3 hour bus ride to Lakselv, about as far north as you can go and still be in Norway, some 300 miles north of the Arctic Circle. Animal Alpha was on our flight, and the two bands were the only passengers on the tourist coach that had been hired to take us to the festival. Lakselv does have an airport, but the flights going there were either ill timed or full. Everybody was really tired, but our first order of business was to go to the festival site and soundcheck. Seriously. At noon. However, when we arrived there, and found that what skeletal staff was at the site was basically still drunk from the ‘night’ before—there is no actual night in Lakselv from May until August—we realized that the day would be somewhat improvised, and we were all cool with that. Lakselv is a very small town, about 2000 people live there. You pass the center in an eyeblink, and there’s not much around: scattered houses, rocky hillsides, tundra, some pine trees. The land changes so much in the drive between Alta and Lakselv—sometimes it looks like rainforest, with ferns and birch trees growing in standing water; sometimes it’s just tundra; sometimes it’s naked rock; sometimes it’s pine forest; sometimes it’s New Hampshire; sometimes it’s Siberia. Lakselv had some trees around, and also some open fields of alpine (tiny, mossy) plants. The roads in the town, are completely straight for miles. They installed a roundabout at the crossing of the two main roads on the edge of town to keep people from routinely swooping down them at a hundred mph. The festival is a couple of miles outside of town on a spit of land isolated from the mainland by a lagoon. The coast around here is complex and curves back on itself, so it’s never clear which direction the open ocean is from your position, or how far it is. There’s a big stage, a few booths for food and drink and a kind of tent with a bar in it, and then the backstage—which is a grouping of what Americans would identify as teepees but actually are a kind of Lavvu, the teepee of the Sami people. The Sami people are the indigenous people of the far north of Scandinavia. They speak a distant relation of the Finnish language, and in addition to participating in the modern world (i.e. working for Norway’s oil industry) many Sami herd reindeer and travel with them to the various stages of grazing during the year. No, Sami people don’t look like, say, Inuit. They look like Norwegians, really, and the populations have been mixing for centuries. So, Sami is a kind of lifestyle, and a language, but also an ethnic group deep in the heart of it. Ok, this is a subject of much controversy, and I don't have the expertise to really navigate it, so read more online. I did read that Joni Mitchell is of Sami descent. Also, we used to call them Laplanders, but that is not a term that carries nice connotations with it—it’s certainly not what they call themselves. So, think Sami, not Lapp! So, anyway, each band playing had their own teepee. Lavvu. Yurt. Wigwam. Thing. With a fire inside, and benches covered with reindeer skins. There was a tent that served as the kitchen, and a big Lavo that would be the VIP bar. And around, the site was a basically flat piece of land, with arctic grass/lichens/moss/flowers etc. growing, giving way to tall grasses at the beach, a strip of gray soft sand about 300 yards behind the festival. So, despite the presence of an enormous stage and professional rigging and what not, it felt a bit like camping, and we all started to get into the spirit of the thing. We had been told to get things in order with the stage manager, and in the meantime the sound engineers were being woken up and delivered to the site. The stage manager was definitely hammered, and said he had no idea, really what was going on. I tried, vainly, to get his impression of what we were supposed to do and he more or less laughed. Since the bus was long gone, and the hotel was about 3 miles away, on the other side of town, and we were all completely exhausted, I asked (since he and the cook were the only people around) if he was giving us a lift back to the hotel. He said, as I already estimated, “I am in no condition to drive” and then, a few minutes later, drove off. Sigh. Well, we discovered a huge slab of smoked salmon in the cook tent (that’s the Laks in Lakselv), and the cook threw some hot dogs on the fire, and we were feeling great, really. The sun was distant but giving a bit of warmth. Eventually I heard music coming from the tent and we headed over to find the sound guys were there putting everything back in order from the night before. We organized the existing backline, and had a leisurely soundcheck. I organized the usual things—no monitors on my part of the stage when we play, the 100 ft. of cable I like to have, etc. We even, after initially not even trying, managed to hang our backdrop—so enormous a thing is it that it only part of the word ‘SMOKING’ was visible behind Claus. ‘KILLS!’ was below the drum riser. Ok, we spent the day recovering at the hotel, and had dinner there, and headed back to the site at about 10 p.m. Animal Alpha were on the mainstage, rocking hard. We had, during the campfire cookout, the bus rides, hanging out in the hotel, gotten to know them and they are super friendly and sweet people. Evidently they have no aggression left in them by the time they purge their souls onstage. Good medicine, the heavy rock. Now, remember—there’s no night, so it’s no darker at 11 when we go on than it was at twelve hours earlier when we were driving to Lakselv from the airport. I made the wise move of taking the barricades away before our set. At the far end of our tent is a bar and some picnic tables, a few folks are way back there. In front of our stage, there’s no one. You have to know also that the difference in scale between our stage and the mainstage is so great as to be comical. “The training stage” as Uriah Heep put it. 5 minutes before we played, just as the last echoes of AA were reverberating, there were three people in front of our stage, sitting in lawn chairs. Well, the the only way to get people over to your festival stage is to start playing, and we had a cluster of people pretty quick. And, since P3 broadcasts throughout Norway, people new the songs—one guy new all of them, and many people were singing along with many of them! There were two absolutely shitfaced bikers in the crowd, one guy was tweaked and kept making shhhh gestures to everyone and sort of barricading them from the stage. I told him in a very friendly way to chill after a song or two, and got the people closer, and then suddenly it was like match to gasoline time—the show went up a big notch and it became one of those furious rock shows, so amazing, you can’t believe it. My shoes came off. The hairiest of the drunk bikers jumped on stage and danced with me. I climbed on the barricade—at the mixing desk! Shirts came off the audience, people groped me…it was absolutely insane and absolutely our best show yet. Each one, in fact, seems better than the last. Lars from AA came to check it out and after a song or two came up to the front and rocked out. It was over so fast…LOTS of singing along on “Oslo”. After the show I sold CDs as usual, and one guy insisted on giving me NOK500 for one, refused to take the change. That’s $100!! We sold a lot of CDs these two days, but less per capita than Haugesund as people actually have the record now in some cases! After the show, Europe took the mainstage, ‘Final Countdown’ and all; I actually quite enjoyed them, they are certainly pros; basically, they are the Scandinavian Bon Jovi, right down to the keyboard player straddling two rigs in his power coat. I walked out to the beach, and took in the golden light of the sun, and realized I was seeing the midnight sun, literally. Actually it was more like 1 a.m. You could survey the field and see the crumpled remains of heavy drinkers scattered about. People were pissing in every direction. Making out on the beach. Amazing. The night time sun really hit me in an emotional way, a way I didn’t expect. Your body is trying to reconcile the contradictions of what you feel and what you see, and it hits you. We spent hours in the Lavvus, drinking wine and eating smoked salmon, with Animal Alpha and other musicians, finally we dragged ourselves out of there—the place was still going full on when we left, and it had to have been 4 a.m., still daylight of course. When I communicated initially, weeks in advance with the festival people about all the details—the timings, the travel, etc., like I do for every show, I had been told the drive between Alta and Lakselv was about 2.5 hours, and thus we had arranged that we would be driven to Alta at 9 a.m. for our 12.40 flight to Oslo. However, driving in that morning proved the drive was more like three hours. So, when I spoke to the organizers, they preempted my suggestion to tell me that they knew all that and that the bus was going to leave the hotel at 6.30 a.m. I said that seemed a bit excessive, and suggested 8.30. To which they agreed. I was thinking that it was us and AAlpha, who we knew were on the same flight. I was hungover, and about to get in the shower at 7.40 when the phone in our room rang, and the reception said the bus was leaving. I was confused. But it was apparent this was no drill. Turns out, another band was added to the mix, and they were on another flight leaving at 11.30, and there was only one bus for all of us. No shower, no breakfast. I was furious and implored the driver to wait, but it was clear he would leave us there. Anyone else associated with the festival was dead to the world and not answering phones. We just had to deal. We sobered up at the airport, and came to accept that which we could not change. And paid something like 40 Euros for two sandwiches and coffee. BTW, people in Finnmark don’t do espresso. Coffee is something you brew in a pot. Old school! Ok, we got back to Oslo, said our goodbyes to Animal Alpha, and headed to Claus’ car. Claus you might not know sells BMWs for his day job. A feature of BMWs is a kind of keyless entry—you have a key, with an RFID in it, and the car unlocks itself whenever you touch the car door handle, with the key in your pocket; the range is a foot or so from the car. Thus, the keys can be in the car, and you can open the door. It can’t be locked. Claus will demonstrate this to customers when showing the features of the cars. Except, it didn’t work. The key was in his bag, we loaded up the rear, closed the hatch, and…nothing. Locked out, and keys in the car. No problem, Claus says—we have an account with a lock service, part of the roadside assistance package. A couple of calls and they were on their way. 45 minutes later, they called to say the just realized they can’t do anything for electronic locks short of breaking the glass. Uh oh. Sigh. Claus haeded off to take the train to Oslo (they work now), go home, get his spare key, train back…long boring story short, we left the airport 4 hours after we landed. Fun! But hey, you gotta have stuff to put in your blog. Love KS Oslo
7.10.2008
BARCELONA SHOW POSTPONED! Sorry, folks--my show tonight in Barcelona at the Arola Restaurant is being postponed until September (date tba, watch the tour info page). There were two enormous accidents today on the only routes going to Orly airport--traffic was backed up roughly 10-15 miles, all the way into the city, snarling the traffic in Paris for the entire morning. By the time I was en route, with plenty of time to spare under normal circumstances, it was too late to find an alternative, and I was stuck in traffic for almost 2 hours, missing my flight. There was no way to get on the next flight out, which was all the way back across and out the other side of Paris, at CDG airport, so I had no choice but to postpone the show; we're looking for a suitable date and I will keep you posted. Those of you who live in Barcelona, I hope you can make the Disciplines show at Sidecar on July 25!! I also have two solo shows in Spain this month, if you don't mind a bit of traveling--19th in Malaga and 20th in El Puerto (Jerez). Check the tour info page for details. Love KS
7.06.2008
This week I’ve been furiously loading software, racking up hardware (I had to buy a studio outboard gear rack, and lots of cables), and getting into mixing the A Life A Song A Cigarette album. In between I have had appointments, package deliveries, mornings in the park with Aden (school’s out for summer), a sleepover with Aden’s school friend to oversee, etc. No need to say the week shot by. One night during the days I was setting up the studio, I snuck out to see the late showing of ‘In Bruges’, which is quite a good film… I found a DJ shop in my neighborhood that sells basic music gear, and was able to buy most of the cables I needed there…I love when I find things in the neighborhood instead of having to take the metro to some place like Pigalle, that’s not easy to get to. ALKMAAR, 7/5 I was up this morning at 5.30, after mixing til 1.30. Unexpectedly, Dom & Aden actually got up to see me off, which was really sweet. Aden begged me not to go, but I explained it was my job and people were expecting me there, I had made a promise to be there, and I could only promise that I would be back the next day. I walked up to the metro to head to Gare du Nord. I always enjoy being up early, and feeling the city’s calm before it comes to life. Some hours later, I was in Alkmaar, and Lien, one of the organizers of the show, met me at the train station. I walked over to her place, to meet her b.f. and members of the band Black Sheriff—including Glen, the bartender from the Sonic Ballroom who was working the night White Flag played there a couple of months ago. We headed over to the festival; my bandmates were starting to make their way from the Amsterdam airport. This was the Parkhof’s yearly festival. The Parkhof is in a park as the name implies—I don’t know what it was built to be, but it is now occupied half by the music venue that squatted there many years ago, and half by a kind of thrift store. The squat has gone legit over the years, and now is a regular stop for many a punk band on the curcuit. So, in July, the put a couple of stages in the park and of course had bands play in the club; we played indoors. All for free. Theoretically it costs one Euro to get in, but I didn’t hear of anybody actually paying that. We started to assemble the backline--mostly courtesy of Black Sheriff--hang our backdrop, etc. This is after the first band, The Suicidal Birds, were done—the S.B.’s being a duo of two super tough looking women, playing awesome, almost grunge-like, punky rock; they play guitar and bass accompanied by a drum machine. Awesome. We did our thing, and being that no one knows us in Holland to this point, the audience went thru a series of expressions I have seen a few times—curious, then amused, then intrigued, then they’re our best friends! A few familiar faces in the crowd, folks came down from Den Helder (Den Helder is the terminus for the train that goes from Amsterdam to Alkmaar). A band we saw on the main outdoor stage, kind of nu metal, had a singer who had a wireless mic, who never did more than squat on the bass bin in front of the stage. Me, with a cable, I was climbing on some scaffolding * outside * the club within a few minutes of the start! Anyhow, we had a great show, and people seemed to love it. And, that is the only assessment really worth noting! Great people at the Parkhof, and the organizers from the Sonic Rendezvous label/discitribution co., we thank you! LUTTENBERG, 7/5 As soon as we were done and I finished selling CDs/vinyls from atop a dumpster in the drizzle, we said our goodbyes, and climbed in the van that had come to pick us up for the next festival—orig. plan was to go by train, but it was really indirect and lengthy and would have put us in town not very long before showtime. I managed to convince the festival to pick us up, which they had no obligation to do, but they agreed to, which was incredibly cool. In the van we had time to get tired, of course—getting up before dawn and playing a very physical rock show has its effects, and we were all beat. We had two hours to relax, actually. Needed. We arrived to the festival grounds, a grouping of tents in/adjacent to a small enclosure in a small field, bordered mostly by cornfields but on one side by woods. A tiny site, as festivals go. But, Luttenberg is a tiny town. We didn’t even see it, and I’m not sure there’s much of a center. The parking lot was mostly empty when we arrived, and when we surveyed the grounds, we could see a few dozen people about. There were two tents, that alternated artists, a dance tent, a little tiny biergarten in the middle of the grounds, and on the edge were a few food and drink vendors. Think of it more like a very deluxe garden party than something like Glastonbury. We observed the Belgian Motorhead, Snaggletooth—a three piece hard rock band, with a cowboy hat –sporting gravel voiced singer playing a Rickenbacker bass—sound familiar? I was once again reunited with Menko, The Posies tour manager/sound engineer 1996-1998; we had just seen him when he stage managed our show in Eindhoven in April. Laughing, I said “these things come in threes—so what’s the third?” He came back to me later, laughing—he’s at Bukta Festival in Tromsø with Woven Hand, the same day we are! Anyway, when Snagglehead finished, and the band on the B stage began, we started setting up. There was some backline available in a trailer, we selected the pieces we wanted—Motortooth was kind enough to offer their behemoth drumkit, but we decided to go with a more modest kit (although Claus showed me photos of his new kit and it looks very much like something Keith Moon would play were he with us today). We set up, and got liquided up, and got, uh…made use of the running water, sit-down toilets that are such a rarity at festivals. And then we rocked it. Seriously! We actually got Dutch people to dance at a show—Dutch audiences are notoriously mellow, you can sometimes think that you are being poorly received when in fact, people are just reserved at shows. As loud and hearty as Dutch people can be in person, as an audience they are quite shy. So, people were really rocking with us. We did 66% of “Shadow of Your Doubt” when Bjorn broke a string. We got an encore (no mean feat at a festival) and had a great, great show. I learned a few tricks from watching Aden on the playground and learned how to hang from the back of my knees off the barricade…I had plenty of cable, enough to get me way outside the tent. Two excellent shows with two excellent audiences and two great festival staffs in one day. Thanks all. After the show I went out on the grass, spread out a towel, and sold CDs and vinyls, and communed with the local kids. Actually had a chance to relax and chat with folks (and autographed a lot of sneakers). It’s nice to hear about other people’s lives, and tell people a bit about myself rather than just scream at them for 45 minutes. Our original plan to hightail it outta there after the set was derailed by the pleasant atmosphere of that field, despite intermittent contributions from the clouds above. We ended up watching a few songs of Bettie Serveert (I didn’t explain, but Menko was there to do sound for them); I had chatted with guitarist Peter earlier, I hadn’t seen him since the Posies and B.S. played together in Beglium 11 years ago. Still great they are, with the drummer from a band, Metal Molly, that Jon produced, playing with them now. But we still left before they were done, Bjorn was drunk enough to be hilariously nonsensical in the 20 minute van ride to our accommodations. Our accommodations were a little Legoland village, where people rent little houses (they call them cabins, but, they are really just small, spare modern homes). I guess to get out of a bigger city they would come here. Anyway, it was a nice place to catch some sleep. And get up at 7 to start making our way to Rotterdam. ROTTERDAM, 7/6 We emerged from our little Mon Oncle cabin and waited for the van to come, like in I Am the Walrus. Our man took us to Zwolle, and bought the tix for us—and happily took the pile of coins and €5’s I presented as payment! We had time to load up on cafes and croissants, and boarded the train. It terminated in Rotterdam, all good. We stopped along the way, eventually in Utrecht, which I thought was odd as I didn’t see Utrecht listed on the sign by the platform as one of the stops. In fact, it was the * new * end of the line—a railway employee said the train would go no further and we had to get on another one. Okayyy…we went into the main hall, and the info desk told me all the trains going to Rotterdam were cancelled, and we would have to take a train to Den Haag, get off at Gouda and get a bus to Rotterdam. Oh. I went and looked on the board, and there were no trains to Rotterdam listed any more…except one, in about 25 mintues. I went back—“what about that one?” “It’s not going.” So, we went down to the platform to catch the Den Haag train, which was coming in just a few minutes. We were told our tickets would be honored all the way. Fair enough. Like dumbass tourists we sat in first class without checking to see where we were—it only dawned on us a few minutes later we were in the wrong section. No one had the energy to move all our stuff to another car. The conductor gave us a pass on this one, since by the time she checked the tickets we were one stop away from Gouda, she said. But, surely she met two stops? West Gouda was first, then Gouda central. Nope. Wrong again. The train came to a halt in West Gouda, and that was the end of this line. No Gouda, no Den Haag. The train headed back to Utrecht! A few calls to the promoter and we were sorted—a van came, picked us up and drove us to Rotterdam. Never did find what the trouble was. In any case, we were soon on the enormous site of the Metropolis Festival—celebrating 20 years of having up and coming bands play for free in a huge park in the southern edge of the city. There’s some 4 stages that I could see, and I believe there are another one or two scattered about somewhere…about 8,000 people come down…and no band that plays is a mainstream act or even underground legend—it’s all bands that are prob. on their first record, or not even on their first record. I knew some names—Blood Red Shoes, the Virgins, Devotchka—myspace sensations of recent months; but that’s about it. On our stage was also Friska Viljor, a Swedish band that has moments of Arcade Fire, F. Ferdinand, the Wombats…anthemic, uplifting indie pop played with much energy (and a mandolin). I was excited to see them, and quite thrilled to find someone I knew was playing in the band—so I was able to chat and meet them, and of course enjoyed watching their set—but that was much, much later. For our part when we showed up the festival grounds were yet to open to the public, and it was quiet, considering about 40 bands were going to be playing. We started to get acquainted with the crew, the backline, etc. Meanwhile, Christophe, our sound engineer, was on his way from Paris, and his train failed to materialize at the appointed time. His cell phone was out of range, but we found him, and he was arriving about 30 minutes behind schedule, the trains were backed up a bit, even the problem was mainly affecting trains north of Rotterdam, it was starting to affect performance up and down the line. But, he arrived, we soundchecked, and were hoping to be ready. At least I was, I had some reservations about the state of my voice after the shows the previous night and afternoon. My voice when I got up at 7 had a bit of the checkout kid in The Simpsons, with the perpetually breaking voice. Even before the show it was not quite back up to speed. But, somehow, miraculously, and because I did my best to avoid talking and drinking in the 15-hour period between shows, I was fine. And weirdly, my voice was totally normal after the show. I thought I might stave off hoarseness until the show was done, but I was sure I’d be in worse shape after this third show than I had been this morning. And I’m completely fine. Now, the show, was great fun. We were the first band on the B stage, which was quite a ways from the mainstage, but we had some people there, and they were into it—only a few knew us, most folks it was pure curiosity or chance that got them there. And we gave them quite a show. Due to the enormity of the stage, once I was in the crowd I couldn’t leave so I simply played the last 75% of the show there…got the kids jumping, and ended up handcuffed to at least two of them! Bjorn has a shaky guitar connection that he did his best to fix but it left us guitarless for portions of the first coupla songs. Anyway, it was a great weekend and a great intro to Holland, we come away with many new fans, many young ones which are the best, being so into it, of course! We sold all the CDs we brought, almost 100 of them, and tons of vinyls. Which is usually a good gauge of how people are digging it, if they want a souvenir. So, thank you all for more great shows. Love KS Paris
7.01.2008
I uploaded many great new photos to the photos section Love KS Paris
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The latest release by Ken Stringfellow is a split EP with Spain's Muy Fellini, featuring never-heard-before music incl. Ken's take on Bob Dylan, released by
King of Patio records
in Spain on Oct 8, 2009.
Order it directly from Muy Fellini here www.myspace.com/muyfellini
10" VINYL ONLY!!!
older news :
8/3/2003
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