PYRENEES, POWER TRANSFERS, AND POOPED-OUT PLUGINS.
This week I shook off the jet lag, and got back to work--pilates classes, mixing, and just being able to stay awake most daylight hours was a sign of a return to form. Mixing was for
Billy & the Firm from Tel Aviv and The Purringtones from Seattle. I did interviews and had some meetings. All the while Paris was grey & cold, so there were many days where after I took Aden to school, I never left the house again.
At one point, a piece of software that I had been really enjoying, Arturia’s Analog Factory, which is a replicator of vintage analog synth sounds, with some basic changeable parameters, stopped working. Well, by mouse clicking the images of keys on its user interface I can play notes and get sounds, but it refused to acknowledge the presence of MIDI despite the fact that it worked perfectly fine the day before and I hadn’t changed anything that I could think of. What’s cool is that I been using Facebook to solicit help, since unfortunately Arturia’s support email has yet to respond and I couldn’t find anyone on the forums with the same problem. I will probably post on Arturia’s forums and soundexchange.com to see if I can ultimately solve the problem. The Facebook helpers may come thru too. Of course, like automobiles, most of use computers every day without knowing the intimate details of how they function. I did all the things I could think of--check my cable connections, reinstall software, upgrade the software to the latest version...no avail.
Now, one thing I *did* do was set up a mac Time Capsule to make automatic backups of my two laptops. In fact, I may backup my G4 on it as well. In theory this should all work smoothly and seamlessly, but it’s not *quite* true. It was a bit frustrating to set up, and I had reset and start over a few times. This is the only major change to my system, but I can’t see how setting up a backup via wifi would make a completely unrelated program stop recognize MIDI entering via USB. If that raises a red flag for someone out there reading this, let me know....
I took a break in working to watch Obama’s swearing in. I had to pick his words out from underneath the oral translation on French TV, but even Aden calmed down to watch the event. You know, I try not to just regenerate and espouse the opinions of my friends, or my generation, etc. I am not going to say I possess hatred for George Bush, for example--I disagree with his theory of the use of US power, and I think he displayed a curious kind of irreverence for being in the most powerful position in the world--one whose actions can literally mean life & death for hundreds of thousands of people (war, foreign aid, intervention in global catastrophe/conflagration). So, without just parroting the stance of my contemporaries, I will say that 8 years of a Bush White House has felt like a really, really long time. We love President Obama in part because he brings a true sobriety to the Highest Office. In the position of the Presidency, symbols matter. Obama may not ultimately find the answer for every problem. He may even provide the wrong answer for some. But, the fact that he is willing to approach and attack the problems, and seems committed to bringing his intellect to bear against them, sends a message that is already easing fear and anxiety. Bush was always smirking, shrugging--as if being the guy with the launch codes was no biggie. In my theory, just that symbolic message alone is the butterfly whose wingbeats usher in a hurricane. And his actions were just, well...let’s say that the results speak for themselves. The Republicans, who are always supposed to be the champions of big business, always seem these days to drive the engine of wealth creation into the nearest culvert. And the overspending liberals, who are supposed to be too much into tree hugging and solar panels to get any serious work done, seem to inspire boom times. In fact, this time around tree hugging and solar panels will probably be the only jobs left in the US...
ANDORRA, 1/24
On Thursday I was up late mixing a track for the Purringtones, finally sending it off for approval at 2.30 a.m.. I was a wreck when I woke up Friday at 7 to take Aden to school, but in fact she had a cold and stayed home. I went back to bed. Up at 9, I looked outside to see rain coming down in a similar fashion to the flood-making torrents that besieged us in Bellingham. I was dreading my journey to Orly airport, but when it was time to go, there was a ceasefire in effect. I took the bus up to Bastille and fought my way across the open space in front of the Opera House to the taxi stand against a massive gale. I always have to factor in the fact that, as has happened to me more than once, I will get to Bastille and for some reason there will be no taxis for 40 minutes. I have to factor in the possibility of traffic jams. So, when those things don’t happen, like this day, I end up at Orly three hours before my flight. On EasyJet, I can’t even check in, they won’t let you check in more than two hours ahead. But, I don’t mind having time to kill; rushing with heart-stopping proximity to to total system failure is my least favorite of feelings.
The flight to Barcelona seemed to go much more quickly than usual. In fact, it had--we arrived ten minutes ahead of schedule. Andorra has no airport, no train lines. The only way to get there are: walking, driving, or taking a bus. Buses run from the airports of Toulouse, Barcelona and Girona. With my scheduled arrival at 16.15, I was cutting it a little close for the 17h bus; the next one was 19.45. So, I was pleased to find that we arrived early, my bags came quickly, and I was out in the sunshine with time to spare. That’s a typical effect of arriving in Barcelona in winter. Suddenly, life is no longer a struggle against the elements. My shoulders relax. My body starts making vitamin A or D or whichever one we get from being in sunlight, and the creaks and numbness of winter erase. I was soon joined by Carsten and soon enough we boarded the bus to Andorra. I was thinking it would be a big tour bus, like the Air France buses that service the airports and train stations of Paris, but in fact, apropos of the fact that we were heading to the world’s 17th smallest country, that the bus would be of a similar scale, just a 16 seater, and there were maybe 8 or 9 of us on this particular route. We pulled out of Barcelona, and I was enjoying the strange, bulbous rock formations and expanses of unbroken forest, and then it grew dark--and we still had two hours to go. We entered Andorra, passing a customs point that was absolutely uninterested in our presence. After the border there are massive supermarkets, duty free stores essentially--alcohol, cigarettes, makeup, chocolate. I never thought of makeup as a vice (with certain, case-specific exceptions) but there it is lumped in with the other deadly sins. We passed thru a small town and arrived in Andorra la Vella, which meant we crawled thru the ambient traffic to the bus station. Andorra’s capital is a narrow bulb that straddles a river cutting thru a steep valley. It is a mix of Park City, Geneva in appearance, but very much Catalan & Spanish in culture. Catalan is the official language but since native Andorrans are outnumbered here, Spanish was the default setting. Most people spoke French when pressed but Spain is by far the dominant cultural influence here. There are more Chinese restaurants in Andorra than French restaurants.
On some of my explorations of the bus company’s website, there was a form to fill in your hotel for door-to-door service, but I was unable to locate this feature when I finally had my hotel info and was ready to book the ticket. Now, as we got of the bus, it seemed like there were a couple of passengers who had been able to secure the door-to-door service, and were waiting on the bus while another driver came to take over, but soon they were all herded into cabs. In fact, Carsten and I were so delighted to see a cab pull up that we got in the first one that arrived--and were told to get out, it was for the door-to-door passengers I described. But, by that time, a second cab had arrived and it was able to drop us at our respective hotels. No need to see it wasn’t very far, but I needed to get my bearings.
My hotel was in Escaldes, i.e. ‘The Heights’, a borough of Andorra la Vella. In the end, you can walk the entire length of the town in like 15 minutes--I did this, as the National TV is on one end, and Escaldes is on the other. After getting settled, I contacted Raquel, who was in charge of my show’s production, and basically runs all the production for the Apolo Andorra. The Apolo is a big venue in Barcelona--a nice looking ballroom that nightly erupts as a massive disco and also has concerts. I *almost* saw Redd Kross there in 2007, when I was recording the CosmopolitANTs album, but we arrived too late to see the show. I also managed to miss Troy Von Balthazar in La [2], the Apolo’s smaller room, spending the whole length of the show in a nearby bar, with Troy’s manager--Dom Stringfellow. I finally got to see the inner workings of La [2] when the Posies had an ace show there in October--completely packed on a Monday night. Raquel was our production person that night as well. So, last fall the Apolo purchased the Angel Blau jazz club in Andorra and rechristened it Apolo AND, and spiced it up with DJs and live music.
Raquel offered to take me to dinner, and I had asked about Andorran cuisine, and she managed to find a little chalet on the edge of town that had Andorran specialties. Oh, I mean specialty--there is only one. It’s a puree of potato, mixed with some other secret ingredients and baked, accompanied by either butifarra or jamon. So, this was done and followed up with some grilled rabbit, accompanied by some Priorat. Carsten’s phone went dead upon crossing the border, so he unf. wasn’t able to join us. Despite the fact that the restaurant was semi-formal, the patrons talked loudly, smoked like chimneys, and didn’t make dirty looks when Raquel took production-related calls on her cell phone at typical Spanish volume. Yep, Andorra is outside the EU, and not subject to France or Spain’s smoking bans. Wealthy Andorra figures that it can offer its citizens health care even if a few of them get emphysema, at least they’ll be happy they were able to smoke freely. Most of the people in Andorra aren’t Andorran, so, they are going to finish their terminal illnesses in their home country, and not on Andorra’s dime.
Later, we checked out the club. Classy retro signage, reminiscent of a vaudeville theatre, clearly marks the spot. You enter and descend into a low-ceilinged black box--but unlike most black basement music clubs, there is a refreshing cleanliness to the Apolo--but it also manages to avoid feeling sterile. It’s classy without being corny, and well designed without being cloying. Attendance for DJ P.A.L. was rather on the low side this night, unfortunately--I joined in with dancing to 80s hits to help the place look lively, and the staff made sure my wine glass was refreshed.
Show day. Having cut a serious rug the night before, I was pretty tired--but the Sad Knights roused me from lazing. The band and a photographer had driven from Toulouse--at the height of the massive windstorm that eventually clobbered Spain from coast to coast, resulting in a dozen fatalities--to spend perhaps twenty minutes snapping pix of us for the recording project I am helping them with. Essentially it is a roots rock band, playing rockabilly and other forms of Americana. The band don’t really look the part--only the singer has anything like greaser hair; the drummer looks more like a death metal rocker; the bass player is a bit more of a Haight-Ashbury aficionado, and I have more of a Spandau Ballet look...anyway, they want me documented as part of the project--hey, anything to help, even tho I am box office poison in France. The guys were soon back on their way to Toulouse, and I wandered down to the Office of Tourism, the only place open selling stamps on the weekend. Tradition holds that I send Aden a postcard when I travel to a new country. I walked up to the office to find it closed for siesta. And who was standing next to me, but phone-less Carsten, to my delight. We agreed to take lunch while waiting for the office to reopen. We wandered around, and it’s hard to find the restaurants tucked in amongst the shops more loudly clamoring for your attention in their pursuit of trying to sell you VAT-free everything. The main drag of the town is a kind of glitter gulch hocking electronics, cigars, wine, clothes, beauty products etc. at full blast visually. The sidewalks are usually difficult to negotiate in daytime as everyone is window shopping as they navigate the the same sidewalk as you--a construction project in midtown encourages 90% of the pedestrians to one side of main street. Incidentally, main street is called Avenida Carlamany by the time you get to Escaldes, named for the man who is credited with Andorra’s ability to maintain its sovereignty, Charlemagne to those of you who who didn’t use history class for siesta.
The restaurant ‘Tone’ was packed, completely mad. We thought--if it’s this busy, it must be good, and sauntered in to see if we could gain anyone’s attention. It took awhile, but eventually we had a table. Some time later, menus, but I swear to you--we sat for 20 minutes waiting to order, but had our food something like 4 minutes later. Local trout generously cooked in oil. Yum. Toné is your host, looking like a bookish version of Spain’s current monarch, and he is caricatured r
After lunch stamps were purchased and applied, and I headed to the National TV to tape a short and pleasant interview and play a couple of songs on a beat up old Spanish guitar. I haven’t seen the results yet, but looking over the journalists’ shoulder back in the newsroom I saw a few frames and it looked marvelous. They also filmed quite a bit of the show, so hopefully that will surface soon. After the interview was when I managed to walk the entire length of Andorra the Old, in time for a very brief hotel room chill and then down to the venue. I dusted off the rust (it had been more than a month since my last public performance/solo show) and found the piano to be a little bit south of fully in tune, but oddly after playing it for about 15 minutes it fell into sounding correct. Weird. With this done, the staff insisted I drink some wine, and then served up the deli tray to end all deli trays--sliced jamon, chorizo, saucisson, and foie gras (!) on bread with tomato. It was supposed to be for the whole staff, but only myself and one other person seemed interested, but we could hardly make a dent in it, delicious as it was.
Eventually, the doors opened and people started to arrive, and I was presented with the newspapers featuring my hound dog mug. By 11 I was more than ready to go on--I had taken my ritual pre show espresso next door, had had plenty of time to digest my meal, and felt clear and enthusiastic.
The crowd was wonderful. In my tuning lulls, the ambient chatter occasionally ramped up, but the crowd policed itself with some forceful ssshhhing. I went thru the usual suspects, spent a lot of time on the piano, since I rarely have use of one, and had a great time. My voice did quite well, despite the out of practice/altitude/cold factors. I blasted away about 3 inches from some audience members, and they loved it. I played new songs, old songs, a couple of covers, and Posies songs. A fan request came up for Solar Sister, and in the solo section I draped the guitar over the requester, and played the solo on the piano while he gamely tried to follow. Turns out he was Oriol, a guy who had tried to bring me to Andorra in the past, but just couldn’t get it to happen. We hadn’t met in person, it was funny to meet that way. The lighting guy was perfect--the ceiling has a recessed lane in the middle that has purple lights in hidden troughs, and those came on when I stood in the crowd and went back to black when I returned to the stage. In the depths of the fun I forgot to take advantage of the fact there was a stand up bass and a drum kit onstage, but I think that’s a blessing that strove to manifest itself in the umbra of my inattention.
Soon it was DJ time, but I felt I had played a nice long set, and the crowd were more than happy, scooping up tons of CDs and the Posies vinyls that I had sent up from BCN. DJ P.A.L. took over, playing all the 80s hits--I know it’s not a stroke of uncompromising individuality to play ‘Blue Monday’ into ‘You Spin Me Round’ but everyone was having fun, and I rejoined the dance floor to everyone’s amusement. My good cheer allowed me to loosen up and act like a friendly fool. I was really tired quite soon, and it was good to hit the sack sober and sore.
On Sunday I had lunch in an odd little restaurant that served French, Italian and Japanese specialties all run by a man who looked exactly like Albert Einstein, perpetuating the occasional illusion that you are somewhere in Switzerland, with people speaking Spanish, which just makes me think of Al Capone pulling up somewhere in his Hispano-Suiza. DJ P.A.L. dropped me in Barcelona; it was a dazzling, perfectly sunny day, but as we exited the country I passed out.
I came to life that night however, dining with my friend Natxo at
Visual, an incredible restaurant with a 23rd-floor view of Barcelona. Stunning, innovative cuisine, with fanciful manipulations of conventional food reality...plus being that the staff includes many Arola restaurant alumni, we were treated like kings. I would not be doing justice to try and describe the dishes--for example, an ordinary sounding thing like onion soup in the hands of this chef became an indulgence, with a kind of thick puree poured over a quail egg and a quail thigh. A perfect, single scallop was brought to each of us. And so on, we had I believe 10-12 courses all told, and some beautiful wine pairings.
So it was with a heavy head that I unglued myself from Natxo’s, reeling a bit from the fantastic wine we were served. I walked in an rather inefficient arc to la Placa Real, only to find the bar designated as meeting point for my interviews as not opening til noon, and the first interview was 11.30. I was early, and no one was waiting for me. I went around the corner to the nearest cafe and of course was next in line behind the journalist, and we got down to business. We went a bit late since we were enjoying the interview, and I realized that if the second guy was on time, he would be wondering where I was, so we wrapped up and I went to Placa Real, only to find no one there waiting for me yet again. I called the rec. co., and they said the journalist had called in sick but still wanted to do it, so I walked back to Natxo’s and did this interview and another phoner. All the three of the writers were real fans--the one in Mallorca writing for Mondo Sonoro went as far as to call me a “hero”. After this was done, Natxo and I had lunch at the Italian place next door to his flat, Piccata. As per my last visit there, I had their unbelievable salad with wild mushrooms and foie gras cuit. The staff was *certain* I was a rock star and all insisted on photos...so I guess I looked cool despite the wear and tear that gastronomy and border hopping provide!
Taking the cab to the airport, I saw remnants of the big storm, billboards twisted and blown over, etc.
Upon arriving home, I basically had time to say hello and then head out the door again, after watching Alain Delon get beheaded on TV...I went to the Maroquinerie to meet a colleague from Denmark who was in town, to talk about how to approach a certain festival there. Little did I know that there was a full on cultural event on, with
Late of the Pier having just played a show. I basically ran into everyone I know in Paris, it seemed. The Housse de Racket guys, my friend Cyril who is one of France’s best l.d.’s, the management team for Syd Matters, journalists, booking agents...it was really quite a nexus. I hopped up to the office (La Maroquinerie’s building houses Fargo Records, Bellevue Management and other music biz company HQ’s) and spent some time checking out videos that Alice, manager for French artist
Babet and others produces for and by her clients. Check out
www.nobrain.fr for some very fun ideas executed perfectly.
No need to say, I closed the place down, fought to convince one of the taxis waiting out front that no one who called a taxi was actually still waiting for one, and got home at 2.45; up at 7 to take my daughter to school, and rush to appointments all day before boarding a plane this evening to head to Oslo, to meet up with THE DiSCiPLiNES and proceed to Helsinki tomorrow...
While I was home this afternoon I listened to the new album from Argentina’s Super Ratones, who appear as guests doing various things on SMOKiNG KiLLS. To return the favor, I sing on two songs in their new album--one song I sing harmonies in Spanish, and the other is more of a duet where I wrote lyrics and sang in English, but also join in a chorus in Spanish, and do some oohs and ahs. The record sounds great, here’s a link to their
website, I am sure they can lead to where you can download tracks or get the CD. In general the SR’s do great, vintage pop in Spanish. They are super cool people, and at one point were one of Argentina’s biggest bands, picking up a Latin Grammy on the way.
I am now in the dark and timeless cavern that is Olympen, waiting for someone to rescue me and take me to my Oslo accomodations...tomorrow morning will be up at 5.30 to start making our way to Helsinki and hopefully have a great, great show.
Love
KS
Oslo
This week I am vacation in Bellingham, my wife and daughter and I are staying with my mom and stepfather at their incredible house on Lake Whatcom. Having been away from the USA for some eight months (and it had been seven months before that for my previous visit) I find I am even more adapted to my adopted continent, and America seems ever more amusing and foreign. Dominique compared it to Toonville in 'Who Framed Roger Rabbit.' I walked the aisle of enormous supermarkets, ate enormous bacon cheeseburgers, and drove by Bellingham's auto row, where thousands of enormous trucks and SUV's *aren't* being sold. I did, however, manage to find French Lavender ice cream, from
Snoqualmie Gourmet Ice Creams--I have been hunting high and low for lavender-flavored ice cream in France to little avail.
Philippe Faur makes one but in typical French 'do EVERYTHING possible to discourage having to do actual business if you are a business' he's impossible to order from, and the single store in Paris who caries his product say they are on the verge to discontine doing so, as he is too difficult to work with.
Here in Bellingham, and all around western Washington, the rain has been worse then ever and flooding has occurred. Dom's late Christmas present was a new digital camera--and we went to Best Buy (enormous electronics store that did not sell Europe-to-US plug converters), one of those American rituals that I think was a first for me. We had to go out to the mall area three times (so far) on this trip--to Best Buy; later to Radio Shack to get plug converters--Radio Shack is actually in the Bellis Fair Mall; and to Value Village. Dom bought tons of clothes and toys for Aden while I read true crime novels and picked out a couple of 70s LP gems.
One thing that's not enormous is Bellingham's art house cinema, the Pickford, located on the main drag. When I was growing up, the Fairhaven neighborhood housed the Picture Show, and I think the Pickford is an extension of the same organization (am I wrong in thinking the Pickford used to inhabit the Picture Show's space?). In the Picture Show, in the 80s I would frequent it to see the art house films of the 70s abnd early 80s--Harold & Maude, King of Hearts, Wizards, Das Boot. At the Pickford this time we took in the excellent Slumdog Millionaire.
I took the opportunity to get my vaccinations for my tour of South America, which left me with a very sore left arm (but RN at Hoagland's Pharmacy did an excellent job administering the jabs). This exercise brought to light that Premera Blue Cross had taken the liberty to cancel my health insurance--seems they don't count me as a Washington State Resident anymore, even tho the US Gov't does. So, after 15 hospital-free years of paying them some $750/month...thanks guys!
My friend Brian came up from Seattle for megawine blowout--we enjoyed three RP100 bottles--the 1997 and 2001 Harlan Estate and a 1989 Haut-Brion. That made the cold of winter seem much further away...
Beyond that it's been about showing off Aden to her granparents--she is thoroughly high from jet lag--up between 3 and 6 am, going full steam chasing the cats--spending time with my folks, my son and his family, etc etc. My work has been limited to a few emails and trips to the Post Office.
The morning we left (we were very lucky to have chosen the Air France direct flight) was the morning after snow had shut down Charles de Gaulle airport, causing Air France to cancel more than 150 flights. The AF website showed the flightl leaving on time when I checked that morning before we left the house. The taxi dropped us off and Terminal 2E was packed to the point where movement was impossible. There was a bomb threat (usually someone has left a duffle bag in the middle of the hall in this kind of thing) plus thousands of stranded travelers who were trying to get rebooked that morning. The bomb threat dispersed. The line still didn't move, and we spent 3 hours in it. Seems Air France has no policy to call flights that are leaving imminently and get people out of the line. In this case, they just let the flight take off when its full. Being a family with a child having just spent 3 hours in line arounsed no sympathy from AF, but Dom browbeat the guy til he got us on the plane. There were certain threats of throat-slittting that my French isn't good enough to express, so Dom was on duty for that.
We got on the plane, and we sat on the runway for two hours. Once in the air, AF is great. The service is very accomodating, friendly etc. The selection of movies sucked. But, hey. And for once I couldn't sleep at all on the flight--despite the fact I had been too nervous about sleeping thru my 5.30 alarm to sleep well at home before we left.
Upon arrival in Seattle, we took the long walk to customs and immigration past a series of panel windows that gave view of the tarmac and one of the other terminals--it looked like a bad day on the Outer Hebrides--fog, wind, rain. The Immigration and Customs officials in Seattle are really friendly--I used to dread entering the US in Seattle, but now it's a breeze. Sadly, our car seat didn't make it (even tho they had 2 hours to get it on the plane in Paris)--so not only did we have to wait until all the luggage was offloaded to find out if it arrived or not, but then spent an additional 45 minutes in line to file a claim. We finally emerged and met my folks, who had rented a car seat from Ken's Luggage (this is a GREAT idea and I have to give kudos to Ken's for that). Only it was too small for Aden. So, after spending 10 minutes getting it locked down in my parents' Subaru, we had to take it out, and Dom & my mom & Aden went and got another one. 45 minutes after getting out of bag claim, we were on our way--and the SeaTac parking garage comped us the extra time, since we paid our parking when we first emerged from baggage claim, before we knew we'd need another car seat...on our way out of Seattle we stopped at my wine storage, and grabbed some treasures for the week. The scene added to the North Sea Oil Rig vibe of Seattle--by the railroad, huge industrial machine whining, rain going sideways--we were in a game of chicken with a loader carrying railroad ties--in fact, Seattle at this point was reminding me more of the surface of the planetoid in the Alien movies.
Before we left, I spent Sunday mixing the Sad Knights, and Monday in the studio with Bud Reichard...work resumes as soon as we touch down on Thursday...! So, I will enjoy the grey tranquility of the (rapidly eroding) lakeshore and keep warm.
Love
KS
Bellingham
