Lost Time and Found Friends

***Okay, last one from the previous. Everything from now on will be new! Huzzah.

Yes, I know, it has been some time since I have posted anything.  What’s more, the subjects are even older.  Nonetheless, I have a new one!  At least it is in before the six month marker.  Cue the ticker-tape…

There was always something missing.  Most people had one, I did not.  It was blatantly obvious.  Especially in mixed company.  In most social occasions, one or two will be put to use to get through lapses in conversation.  When the bottoms of glasses and the cleanliness of shoe-treads become of particular interest, most socialites will draw upon theirs to hump the trail off.

A good New Year’s Eve story is always at the top of the anecdotal list.  This is where I was lacking, I couldn’t carry the conversation with a “… one New Year’s, we went…”  Now, at long last, I have a story!  Get your refills and stop contemplating your navel, let me tell you a story…

On December 31, Ma Bebe, my good friend Madmike, and I went to Slim’s to see one of my most favorite bands, Hepcat.  Planning for three months to attend the show, I was getting there in earnest.  Madmike had come to the left coast from Pittsburgh, PA (n’at) just for the show (Well, to hang with the boy wonder also)!  With the arrival of Madmike, something spectacular happened:  I received my first visitor!  How about that, there is someone that actually likes me enough to visit.  Or is it that the benefits of escaping a PA winter to temperate Bay Area is more attractive?  Dunno.  What I DO know is that as great it was to see Madmike and have a flesh and blood visitor; I wasn’t able to spend a lot of time with him.  Due to the fact that I work in the industry of scorn and persuasion, my waking hours were filled up by taking back angry and unfulfilling gifts in exchange for settlements and empty promises.  Never mind what they say about the retail world during the holiday rush, the most loathsome time of year is the returns season.

Dreadfulness manifesting awareness of our own separations from those that we want to know us, the ones we want to see our dreams, desires and loves.  To see the little boy holding the dream. Boxing Day has become the day of a mortuary; the death of dreams, aura, and ego.  Ultimately, with mirror staring back, we see our shortcomings as a friend, sibling, kin, and spouse.  Hollow, we wander in and with a thinly-veiled lie attempt to expunge the insult.

We are all separated from those that we have always wanted to be close to.  Divorcee father can’t see his sons.  Collegiate girls can’t talk to their mothers.  Friends, spread from coast to coast, following empty dreams, are estranged from the support groups cultivated for years.  We are away from those that we want to share a pot of tea.

I have never felt more alone than standing in the middle of the floor of Barnes & Noble two days to Christmas.  Distracted by thoughts, people are aloof, unfriendly, detached, distant, remote and unapproachable.  All I want is to crawl into bed next to Ma Bebe, throw my arms around her and nuzzle the back of her neck.  C’est la Vie, et elle est au loin et je suis près d’à loneliness.  Watching television, I exhale, yearning.

When we reached the door of Slim’s, in SF, I was ecstatic!  One of my closest friends, AND Ma Bebe with me at a Hepcat show, what could be better?  I originally saw Hepcat in 1998, in Cleveland, Ohio.  It was a great show!  I was introduced to S.H.A.R.P. and was completely entertained at the Odeon.  The band was solid, but there was something missing.  I wouldn’t realize what that was until this New Years Eve. Alex De’sert had separated himself from the band to pursue his acting career.  Being from Los Angeles, who can blame him.  He had been with the band since 1989, when the Third Wave of Ska developed, but had gotten an ongoing gig on the show Becker as the blind newsstand guy, Jake.

Months before, when I found out that Alex had reunited with Hepcat, I immediately contacted Madmike.  He was the person to introduce me to the genre and I had been separated from him with minimal contact.  We hadn’t talked mostly because of my follies, but now, we were at least on speaking terms.  Nearly 5 years ago I had relied upon his good graces for an exit strategy to a bad relationship, but I screwed that up, too.  Embarrassed, a year ago, I got a hold of him and Madmike and I had become friends, again.

It may be because of the ecstasy of the reunification of friends and girlfriends, I was trashed that night.  There were reasons to celebrate.  I made it another year in California!  Ma Bebe came back to spend some of the holiday season with me!  I had a real friend in California!  I was double fisting Pabst Blue Ribbon!  By Proxy, I was getting my gf trashed! Ska music makes me dance! The Aggrolites excited me to no end!

Seriously.  The Aggrolites were a band that came from nowhere.  As far as I’m concerned, the Aggrolites never existed before 12/31.  We, as concert-goers, have always wanted this experience.  It comes out of nowhere.  We’re sipping on our adult-type beverage and are waiting for the headliners when opener blows our mind!  Jaw-on-chest and exploded-mind, I slurredly shook my head and agreed that these guys were amazing!

A 5-piece from L.A. the Aggrolites perfectly mix the finer points of Jamaican ska, reggae, Motown, and Atlantic Records R&B (a la Wilson Pickett) and blow your mind.  I’m having a real hard time describing the experience.  Not just because it was 6 months ago, but these guys were THAT good!  Jaw-droppin’.  If I had panties, I would have thrown them on stage!  I’ve got a loaded 45 with reggae music!  Quite sagacious, Jesse.  All innuendo, aside, I would love to peak at your record albums.

Somehow, I got Ma Bebe trashed.  I didn’t mean it, but I won’t apologize.  I guess getting two drinks at a time at the bar had an affect on more than just me.  By the time Hepcat got to the stage, the Aggrolites had lubricated the evening (in everyway possible), and we were in good shape.  Madmike had moved to the front and I had taken my prerequisite position behind the crowd.  Hepcat came on like a wave.  Their 3rd wave washed over us like a warm blanket and I remembered why Alex was important to the mix.  Ma Bebe got a glimpse of what I love and she smiled.  It may have been the Pabst, but I believe that in between the New Years resolutions I saw the dream drawn out and fortified by friendship.  Home is not just a song sang by the band, laid out along chords and scales.  California is not just radical thoughts and passing fads; its home to some of us and we have found it.  Friends and love are what solidify us.  In times of distance I dream of finding my way home.

Feel the Wild Rumpus on Cameltoe Hill!

***Okay, only a couple more.One more from the previous blog.

I can’t believe that I’m actually going to attempt this.  I don’t even know if I can write something worthy of the man.  I should just let it go.  I mean, it’s been THREE full months (and then some)!  Dear Lord, I’m actually going to do this!  Okay.  Pimples and all, here it is.  Don’t say I didn’t warn you….

On October 6, 2006, Ma Bebe and I went to see a legend in the suitably magnificent Greek Theatre; every bit as glorious and moving as the summer day I first walked into it (see First San Juan Hill, Then the Greek!).  I couldn’t help but think that a place as this is befitting of a man like Paul Simon, or as I like to call him, Paul-Fuckin’-Simon.

For those of you that may not know, Paul Simon is an icon of modern music.  Lightly put, he’s a god.  Better yet, “émerveillez-vous des pensées et des mémoires”, “chanteur de l’amour et de la vie”.  Let me explain.  For anyone who is of a particular age, say 31, there are memories, anecdotes, relationships and large portions of life that can be defined or summoned up by a single song or a lyric.  Do you love the sound of a train in the distance?  Of course you do, everyone thinks it’s true.  This I know and believe me, it’s true.  There’s a simple experiment I’ve developed from years of observation, mostly through the bottom of various glass drinking vessels.  NONE-THE-LESS, the instructions are as such:  Wander into any variety of public-house; your choosing, it doesn’t matter the clientele, the ONLY stipulation is that they have a jukebox with a Paul Simon song on it.

Once you have located some quarters, and found a slot to slide them into, pick a Simon & Garfunkel or solo Simon tune (preferably from Graceland, back) and watch.  There will be a momentary calming of conversation and general din.  Then, there will be a general swaying of the room, with the song.   If you’re lucky, people will sing along or at least mouth the words.  Don’t believe me?  Go, go now!  I’ll wait.  Seriously.  Slip out the back, you don’t need to discuss much, here’s a couple quarters, take the bus, if you have to. Go.  Have a good time.

See.  What did I tell you?  Right.  Anyways, where was I?  Oh yeah, the Greek.  So, it was a warm night when Ma Bebe and I ambled into the Greek, my second trip and her first.  Through the ticket-takers and security, up the stairs, up more stairs, and up more stairs still, I found the crowd unlike my last experience.  Still crazy after all these years, this crowd was considerably, well, older.  Not a surprise considering that Mr. Simon has been recording since 1957, when Mr. Garfunkel and he (still in high school!) logged “Hey, Schoolgirl” under the appellation “Tom and Jerry”.

(Information taken from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Simon)

Our seats were noticeably, um, more vertical than the last time I was here.  You see, above the proper amphitheatre (read as “cement seats/steps”) there is the lawn.  Usually, the lawn is a gentle slop where families and bohemians mingle in a park-life atmosphere, to listen to the music with out being caught up with seeing every minutia of the performers (personally, I like the minutia).  Unfortunately, the Greek does not ascribe itself to the customary.  This became blatantly obvious to us in two instances.  The first was when we initially walked to an open spot on the lawn and were afraid to tumble down the near 45 degree angle of the lawn.  The second was when we made it to the aforementioned spot, composed ourselves, and tried to get comfortable.  Comfort is a fickle muse at the Greek.  After laughing at each others’ anxious attempts at allayment, Ma Bebe and I each named the lawn “Cameltoe Hill” or “Wedgie Hill”, depending upon your personal perspective or current ailment.

After a couple adult-type beverages, discussions of the Yankees losing the pennant, and finding a heel-digging, quad-killing assuagement of a seat, the lights went down and amidst wisps of Berkeley’s favorite inhalant, Jerry Douglas took the stage.  Largely unknown to me, I figured that he must be pretty good to open for Paul-Fuckin’-Simon.  AND good he was.  There were no lyrics to his songs, only the beautifully haunting echo of his Gibson resonance slide-guitar backed up by a well-tuned and constrained band.  I say “constrained” simply because the star of his act was his guitar.

Jerry Douglas has been in the music business for many years.  Of his many projects, through the years, he has worked with Garth Brooks, Ray Charles, Emmylou Harris, Dolly Parton, Paul Simon, James Taylor, Earl Scruggs, Phish, The Chieftains, George Jones and Trisha Yearwood.  Probably the most recently notable is Union Station.  You know who I’m talking about, I’m sure you do.  Did you see O Brother, Where Art Thou?  Of course you did.  Union Station was the real-life band of constant sorrow that played the music for the Soggy Bottom Boys.  Reaping the benefits of the bluegrass resurgence, Mr. Douglas has been doing pretty well for himself, considering that he’s opening for Paul-Fuckin’-Simon.  I do have to say that he’s pretty damn good.  One of my favorite songs was “The Wild Rumpus”, written for his son and inspired by Maurice Sendak’s classic, Where the Wild things Are.

(Information taken from http://www.jerrydouglas.com &

http://www.myspace.com/jerrydouglasband)

When Paul Simon took the stage, I must say I welled up a bit.  I mean, come on, it’s Paul-Fuckin’-Simon! Personally, I have loved his songs since a strange encounter in college.

At Edinboro University of Pennsylvania, there was a bizarre and wonderful tradition.  Few people encountered this event.  Essentially, it occurred at the end of the semester, when sleep-deprived and caffeinated students cast extraneous baubles to the trash cans of their dormitories upon escaping college finals for the warm, cinnamon life of Home. The later part of ritual consisted of the Resident Assistant (think: floor manager) going to the vacated rooms and making sure the students hadn’t left anything perishable in the turned-off fridges and maybe looking over the left-behind belongings; more importantly, and specific to this story, looking in, and around the trash cans for salvageable items.  Helping with this process, since I was dating a RA, I found Negotiations and Love Songs.  I hadn’t really listened to Paul Simon before, but I figured what the hell.  Ever since, it has been at the forefront of my CD cycle.  Now, no matter the day I’ve had, I can turn on that CD and be transcended to a magnificent and glorious place.

Ma Bebe and I have a funny relationship with Paul Simon’s music, or “P.S.” as Ma Bebe calls him.  When we are listening to music together, mostly when we are afield in a rental car, we listen to his music.  It becomes a funny compromise.  The regular course of events follows along the standard of me suggesting, “how about Dropkick Murphys?” and she suggesting,” how about Erasure?” and we meet in the middle with Paul Simon.

Truth be told, Mr. Simon does not have his falsetto he once had.  In fact, his well know songs were not sung the way that they were popularized.  He sang them up tempo, down tempo, atonal, and a cappella.  At first I was outraged!  How dare he sing the songs differently?!  These are not to be tampered with! Dance, monkey, dance!  Then, I realized the injustice I was emitting.  These are HIS songs.  They are not mine.  He can sing them however he wants to sing them.  I mean, singing them the exact same way for twenty years must be brutal.  I can see why David Bowie announced in the early 90s that he wasn’t going to sing any of his early songs when he was on tour (since revoked).  Wounds should not be reopened.

Honestly, I can’t remember everything about the concert.  I wish I could.  As I sit here, poking lettered keys, listening to Negotiations and Love Songs, I WANT to relive the experience.  There’s something special when you hear a song that touches you.  There’s a rising of the soul and a lightning bolt from somewhere deep inside of you that explodes into a plume of fireworks in your cranium.  It, it sounds like a train in the distance…..

Wanna Hummer? Naw, I’m on a Quest!

***Yet another one from my former Weblog. Not many more.

At the beginning of last month Ma Bebe and I went to see A Tribe Called Quest at the Berkeley Community Theatre.  And it wasn’t a moment too soon.  With all the “world music” I was seeing I started to feel like my street cred was evaporating and I was becoming Ray from High Fidelity.  Not that hip hop is my first (or last, for that matter) choice of music, but when one has a chance to see legends of a genre then ya gotta get there!  Well, the only caveat is if those legends have become greedy, no-talent hacks, a la Rolling Stones or Bob Dylan.  That’s right, I said it, HACKS!  Have you heard their new albums?  Despicable!  Bob Dylan is just pissed he didn’t die young.

Anyways, on August 29th, the Bounce 2K Tour rolled through Berkeley Community Theatre, on the Berkeley High School campus (Remember this: “Berkeley High School campus”).  Supporting Tribe Called Quest was the Procussions and Rhymefest.  Evidently, the promoters were the video game producers 2K Sports and were using the musicians to promote the real “star” of the tour, their new basketball game.

Arriving at the Theatre, we were under whelmed by the size of the crowd, or the lack there of.  Literally, there was no one outside.  No skaters, no scalpers, no people watchers, no one!  There wasn’t even the requisite leper colony of smokers off to the side of the entrance.  It became blatantly clear as to why this was when we ambled through the doors into the wide foyer; everyone was playing the video game.  “Ugh”, I thought, “people ACTUALLY came to a concert to play a fucking video game?!?”

Making our way through the jittery, blingin’ bepimpled electronics enthusiasts, Ma Bebe and I ambled to the doorway to our section.  The Berkeley Community Theatre is a regal monument to an age past where the most (legal and socially-acceptable) fun you could have on a Friday night was to go to the theatre.  Vaudeville, Burlesque, Miller, Stoppard, Wilde, Beckett, Shakespeare, Philharmonic, Big Band and Broadway were sure to have graced the stage, and now hip-hop is taking its moment in the lights, in this prize of architecture.

Strange days are these.  I’m still mesmerized by the liberal hubris of this community.  Walking to our seats we mutually took a deep exploratory sniff of the familiar haze emanating from the slowly filling seats and realized why the “lepers” were not encircled outside.  The show had not even started and they were already blazing…in the bloody high school auditorium!  Christ, I’ve seen it all.  Sagaciously, Ma Bebe made the point that if someone were to fire up a cigarette the socially awkward “ushers” would probably have to marshal them out of their seats.

After 20 minutes of requisite promoter-babble, the lights dimmed, the seats lit up, and the Procussions took the stage.  As a startup rap group, I can’t say much more than they were formulaic.  They had the screaming member, a la Linkin Park and Jay-Z, rapping about high school, and their songs were reminiscent of when Ice T taught Elmo how to rhyme on Sesame Street.  Ultimately pedestrian, the only standout part of the Procussions was the DJ’s 10 minute scratch-fest that impressed me to no ends.  Seamlessly mixing and changing records all the while, the boy had talent.

Next up was Rhymefest, and the crowd went crazy for him.  Largely unknown to me, mainly because I don’t listen to the radio, he has been blowing up the airwaves for a couple of years now.  Hailing from Chicago, Rhymefest is the friend of Kanye West and coauthor of West’s Grammy award-winning “Jesus Walks”.  Evidently, he has been a standout in the underground scene for years (even beating Eminem in a head-to-head in Cincinnati), but hadn’t received any major notice until “Jesus Walks”.  Rhymefest’s songs are about dealing with poverty, relationships and being a man.  Of course, I know what you’re thinking: “uh, I don’t think so…”  This does sound like the ill-conceived categorization of the ilk of acid-jazz, positive rap, and Christian metal, but this is different.  His raps are about trying to go to college and only having the option of military service to get money, or the recruitment campaign of driving a “Hummer for the Summer” (a song about the sneaky tactic of getting black teenagers to fill out an “entry form” where they get called to come into the recruitment office to “assess options” with the military).  I may not be from the inner city Chicago, but the lack of money and being a focal point of military recruitment are resonant with me.  I made the mistake that of taking the ASVAB in high school.  I scored high and the various branches took turns calling me all the way to my sophomore year in college!  The only way I got them to stop calling was to ask them about their policy about gays in the military, alluding to the possibility of me being gay.  I figured if they wouldn’t take “no” for an answer, I would be a willing, even fanatic, candidate that they could not take (this was before “don’t ask, don’t tell”).  They hung up on me.

After 15 minutes of playing the same 2 minute intro music in a loop, Tribe Called Quest took the stage to a barely happy crowd.  I believe that there would have been a riot, if it were not for those forward thinking, controlled substance users.  They had been blazing so much the effects were hard to ignore.  What can you say, Berkeley has a reputation.  The luke-warm reception gave way to full out adoration once Q-Tip, Phife, and Ali Mohammed launched into the back catalog of greatest hits.  From “Award Tour” to “Bonita Applebaum” to “Find a Way”, they kept the rhythm up and bumping; they even freestyled a bit to show that they still have it.  With each song I was transplanted back to my small town upbringing, where the new introduction of cable television brought me images of “the outside world”.  As the old joke goes, there were “more cows than people” in Kane, and I felt like I lived on an island being surrounded by the Alleghany National Forest.

Diversity wasn’t in the vocabulary and most Kanites barely leave the county, much less the state.  There was a security in the solitude, but I wanted to know about different things than what I knew.  MTV was the way I did it.  I could go from Brooklyn to Mexico to Compton, five minutes at a time!  For good or bad, I soaked up these songs and images for 5 hours a day and they became imbedded in my subconscious.  All of which came flooding back in Berkeley Auditorium.  My experience is not independent.  Music has always been a great catalyst.  This is why reunion tours have a “dancing monkey” sort of feel.  The band usually hasn’t put out anything of note recently and all the audience wants is the hits, the ones they remember.  You know, the “play ‘Free Bird’” effect.  After each song Tribe played, there was a cacophony of song titles screamed from the crowd.

Tribe hit all of the bases and covered most of their greatest hits album and said good night.  The house lights went up, and Ma Bebe and I staggered out of the Community Theatre into the crush of the blurry and red-eyed.  The video games had been put away, and we all shuffled into the night air to remember forgotten memories.

First San Juan Hill, Then The Greek

*This is yet another one from my previous weblog.

Well, its a new month and here I am with a new blog.  My current rate of concert-going has begun to bother me.  Not only the rate, but I have been second guessing my planned outings.  This is a bit embarrassing. The hour before I go to see a show is spent hemming and hawing about whether I would prefer to just stay home.  I haven’t written about this before, but it happens every time I have plans!  I can remember the days when, without a bat of an eye, I would drive two hours, after working a full day, to see a show; then I would turn around and drive back so I could work the next morning at 9am.  Then, turn around and drive the very same two hours, after working the aforementioned shift, to spend the next two days seeing 6 bands play!  Now, with public transit to take me to any number of events, I hedge?  Jesus, get the Depends and prunes.  I’m old.

Kinky

Friday, July 28, I went with some friends to the Greek Theatre on UC Berkeley’s campus to see Manu Chao, with Kinky supporting.  The Greek Theatre is an amazing place!  “The Greek”, as those in-the-know call it, has been the stump for the famous and notorious; from Theodore Roosevelt and Woodrow Wilson to Bob Dylan and Mario Savio.  Conceptualized by then School President Benjamin Ide Wheeler, fresh from Athenian travels, The Greek was constructed in 1903 and was paid for by none other that the grand duke of yellow journalism, William Randolph Hearst.

Historically speaking, The Greek was founded during a portion of this nations history that can only be described as “philhellenism” (its “love of Greek”, Look it up!).  This also, happens to be about the time that the system of fraternities and sororities were founded (you know, “Greek”).   I guess that President Wheeler thought that the stoicism of the Greek  ruins he had see in Athens should be brought to his college so that they could conduct civilized forms of culture on a platform that is fitting of performances of the Greek drama masters.  Either that or he wanted a place where he and his friends could watch young men matriculate wearing nothing but a sheet wrapped around them or a very revealing gladiator costumes, in a civilized way.

(Info found at http://www.berkeley.edu/news/berkeleyan)

Walking into the Greek is an experience in itself.  With its lofty colonnaded stage, yawning amphitheatre cut into the side of the hill above campus, framed by towering eucalyptus and redwood, and the evening fog rolling in from the bay, theres a sense that you have walked onto consecrated land.  A feeling that you just might see Zeus and Poseidon wander in to listen to a song or two and purloin your girlfriend.

Thirty minutes before the start of the show, the place was already bumping.  From base to top, the seating is a series of three feet deep, two foot tall concrete steps rising from the sand circle at the bottom to the wide walkway across the top.  Most of which was taken. What was not taken had jackets, blankets, and miscellaneous items spread across them, demonstrating the internationally recognizable concert-going symbol of “don’t you dare take these seats, I’ve got friends coming, or maybe I dont and I just dont want the likes of you plopping down next to me!” Snaking our way through the sizable crowd, we nosed into some seats near the top, in the middle, and waited for our other friends to meet us.

A DJ was spinning a seamless set of beats, undoubtedly to start the musical salivations and set the mood for the night.  The audience was the “beautiful people”.  Not the plasticized and botoxed image whores, but the pierced, tattooed and nonspecifically multiethnic bohemians that you see on the street and you glance a second time.  A wonderful mix of Rastas, Skaters, Euro trash, hip Africans, Mediterraneans, and Hispanics, latter day Hippies, Ravers, Partiers, Hip Hoppers, and so on.  Finally, this is the crowd that I’ve been longing for.  In the last two entries, I have openly bemoaned the surprising whiteness of the audience, the lack of joie d’vive, now I’ve got it!  These are my people, my crowd, mi muchachos.

The rest of our quintet arrived shortly after Kinky took the stage in a tour de force. The best way to describe Kinky is take Nine Inch Nails (a’ la Pretty Hate Machine), make them Mexican, and throw in an accordion.  Hailing from Monterrey, Mexico, they put their band together in 2000 and have been burning the pavement ever since.  Their sound is a fusion of rock, electronica, and Latin Funk with a few other types of music thrown in for good measure.  Much of their popularity and success has been due to word of mouth.   Well, that and a song on a car commercial.

(Info taken from http://launch.yahoo.com/ar-292382-bio–Kinky)

I was blown away by Kinky!  I could not believe how good they were!  What, at first, sounded like a wall of sound, revealed itself to have multi-layered components that just added to the juiciness of it all.  The music so perfectly played and coordinated, I grit my teeth, smiled and began to swoon as the music washed over me.  The audience fell into place as well.  At some point during the first and second song, the amphitheatre filled up.  There were no seats to be had.  No room to stand.  Hey Joe, no room in the inn, go to the barn!  Ordinarily, I would be a little bothered by the huge crowd that turned out.  But, this crowd was something more; there were no posturing, no hostility and no intimidation.  These are the things that I just don’t want to deal with when it gets crowded. Instead, there was a definite feeling of invitation, camaraderie, and relaxation.

Manu Chao

Well, I’m not sure if that actually was the general feeling of the crowd or the second-hand effects of the Olympic-size amount of pot the group directly in front of me was smoking.  Dear Lord!  They were hitting it like they were getting paid to do it!  Of the 3 hours of concert, there was not a time that something was being passed.  And they came fully prepared for the tertiary result of ” the munchies”.  One woman, who I called “Mary Poppins”, was pulling food out her satchel and started to pass it around.  Surprisingly, it continued for at least 10 minutes!  Chips, brownies, cookies, peanuts, wasabi peas, fruit, cut veggies, water bottles, pretzels, mixed nuts, sushi, and on it went; taking items out of the bag that seemed to be WAY too small for the amount of items being taken out of it.  Personally, I was waiting for her to pull a broom and dustpan out, but it never happened.

When Manu Chao, took the stage, a wave of adulation rose out of the crowd that drowned out the band.  There is something very humbling when you go to see a band that you’ve only just heard about and there are thousands of people around you that are singing along with every single song that is played.  This, in itself, is astounding because Manu Chao sings in English, French, Galician, Spanish, Arabic, and Wolof; sometimes even within the same song!  Hailing from the Spanish Pyrenees, born of a Spanish father and a Basque mother, he grew up in Paris, where his parents fled to escape the Franco regime.

Influenced by the Englands punk scene, specifically the Clash, he, his brother, and cousin started the French punk/rockabilly band Hot Pants in 1985 which lead into Manu Negra, in 1987 and Radio Bemba Sound System in the early 90s.  Much of his current sound was developed during his wanderings after Manu Negra broke up, most of which was focused in Central and South America.  Not only finding a sound, Manu had made connections with the Zapatistas and even put samples of their leader Delegate Zero on Radio Bemba Sound System!   Politically, this connection and his outspoken songs about ghetto life and anti-war messages have gotten him into trouble.  No more that any other self-proclaimed liberal, I guess.

(Info taken from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manu_Chao)

There is definitely something about Manu Chao.  Everyone was dancing their ass off (including C’est Moi).  You were just moved to get up and shake you moneymaker.  Every one of the songs was following the same form.  They would start out slow with a ska or reggae groove and descend into a chest-pumping and fist pounding jump fest. The most amazing thing is that they kept coming back for encores.  I lost count somewhere around seven.  He said good night, even bringing the band up front to do the bow in unison, and the stage would go black and then they would reappear with an explosive new set!  AND every bit as bouncy as he was when the show began!  Whatever he’s drinkin’, give me two.  At long last, when it all ended (possibly because Manu collapsed in exhaustion) the house lights went up, the stage cleared and we all shuffled out, blurry eyed and dance-sweat happy.  Beautiful night, wonderful time.

Ready the Champagne, Strike the Bow

***A note, this is the first of my previous weblogs on music. I am importing them all here to archive them and to keep perspective on my concert-going exploits. Slainte!

On this momentous occasion, I’ve decided to start transcribing my experiences and opinions of the shows/concerts that I attend.  Not that I go to them all the time, or even very often, I’ll give my perspective from the seats/standing area to which I am usually regulated, either by myself or by money-hungry promoters; as the title states, from behind you.
This past Friday, April 28, 2006, “Ma Bebe” and I went with a couple of friends to see Amadou & Mariam at Bimbos, in San Francisco’s North Beach.  Amadou & Mariam are a blind duo from West Africa, specifically Mali.  28 years ago, the two met in Bamako’s School for the Blind and, shortly after, started making music together.  Finding that there was a lack of opportunity in Mali; they moved to Abidjan, Cote d Ivoire and began cutting some records, mostly on cassette.  They gained a following in West Africa which spilled into the country’s former colonial government, France, where their old and new recordings started to be put onto CD.  Once there, their popularity exploded with the release of their newest album, Dimanche a Bamako, in 2004.  Since then, they have been overcoming musical barriers all over the world, and out-pacing modern powerhouses such as Coldplay, Green Day, and James Blunt.
(Info. from www.amadou-mariam.com)

Amadou et Mariam

After the daunting task of attempting to find parking in North Beach, on a Friday night (!), our quartet hurriedly made our way to the show.  Upon arrival, The Boy-Wonder (C’est Moi) found that his ticket was no where to be found!  After a bit of swearing, stomping, and pleading the “Will Call” window attendant for a ticket to the SOLD OUT show, “Ma Bebe” suggested that we go back to the car to see if we could find the ticket while our companions go in and stake their claim in the audience.
Returning from the car, crestfallen, I decided to spend the intermediary time drinking at the best bar I’ve been to in SF, Kennedy’s Pub and Curry House (more on this later), right across the street.  Before enacting my self-hating plans, “Ma Bebe” found a man selling his extra ticket.  I happily turned over my 25 ducats and entered the establishment.
Bimbos is a great place.  With its coat check, neck-tied bartenders, table service and attended restrooms, Bimbos seems more of a window to a bygone time, where people arrived in shark-skin suits, waved to associated across the room with jeweled pinkies, and spoke in only whispers to be entertained by the likes of Bobby Darin and Perry Como.

Once we entered, the show had already started and the full house was filled with sweaty, undulating white people!  Not to be a racial thing, but when I thought of what the audience would be, I expected a more representative African crowd, mottled with the occasional bohemian, Euro trash, or tweaked-out raver; not the bleached and botoxed “white-man’s overbite” ilk that were there.  C’est la Vie!  I’m just happy that people are hearing and enjoying them in America, at least in San Francisco.

After taking our place with our friends, mostly to the rear, the wonderful sound washed over us.  Through the sea of waving arms and bobbing heads, we rubber-necked to see Amadou & Mariam front and center, surrounded by their French hipster band and, more fittingly, African percussionist (not drummer).  The drummer even had a dreaded skullet (think mullet, without the business on top)!  But that’s not to comment about their sound, they were amazing!  As much as I like Dimache a Bamako, the album does not give justice to the talent that they have.  I personally was blown away by them, and it wasn’t off-putting or distracting that all the songs were in French (punctuated by what seems to be the only English Amadou knows, “Are you ready? Lets go!”).  This may be because “Ma Bebe” was translating for me.
Being the shortest show I’ve ever been to, it was all-said-and-done in an hour and fifteen minutes (even with an encore!), I like most of the other patrons began to shuffle out, very happy albeit a little disappointed that they didn’t play more.  Although, a wise man once said, “leave ‘em wanting more”, and thats just what they did.  Once outside was obtained and we regrouped, we decided to tip one at Kennedy’s.
Kennedy’s is a strange and wonderful place.  At first glance, it seems like your ordinary sort of beer drinker’s bar, complete with TVs, pool table, jukebox, attractive, saucy bartenders and an array of taps to choose from, all of which the barkeeps can speak at length.  But then, at further investigation, probably to find a table or the requisite marginally-clean restroom (at least there’s no trough!), you find that the bar is connected to a fully-functional curry house, complete with broken-english speaking Indians.  Strange indeed.  That is, until further investigation, or enough drinking has allowed you to wax poetic:  A)  Indian food, primarily curries, are terrific when you’ve hoisted a few; and B) Both the Irish and the Indians share the infamy of being the peons of British history and their mutual experiences intellectually coincide.  I do love this bar.

After we all imbibed an oat-soda or two, we departed into the warm San Franciscan May air for our homes, groggy, happy and content.

Tituba was Framed

***Also, from the previous weblog.

It has been nearly two months since my last entry and it feels like longer.  Since then, there just have not been any shows/concerts that have tripped my trigger, or were easily accessible by way of shoe leather.  That was until I found out that Amadou & Mariam were putting on a *FREE* concert in San Francisco.  “Hot damn!”, I believe I said.  I had recently seen them and was eager to see them again, considering the drama I encountered last time (see the last BLOG). On Sunday, June 25, 2006, I found that this *FREE* concert happened to be part of an entire series of *FREE* concerts put on during the summer.

Amadou et Mariam

In the American tradition of upper-class white people dancing to African rhythms in a secluded clearing in the woods (established by Tituba, Sarah Good, and Sarah Osborn), the series is held in a forested park called Stern Grove, and has been presented in the same place for 69 years!  Located at 19th Avenue and Sloat Boulevard in San Francisco’s Sunset/Parkside District, the park was purchased in 1931 by Rosalie M. Stern and given to the city of San Francisco in memory of her civic leader husband, Sigmund Stern.  Supposedly, Mrs. Stern thought the park had “great acoustics” and determined that the recreational area should be preserved as a spot for the public to come to admission-free dance, theatre, and music shows.  This Herculean charge has been the undertaking of the Stern Grove Festival Association, funded and labored primarily by donations and volunteers.

(Info from www.sterngrove.org)

Otis Taylor

Arriving at the sight, I was stunned to find that this park was exceptionally secluded in a very urban area of the peninsula.  Stern Grove looked like it used to be at the bottom of a river, a deep river.   The walls of the grove are nearly at a thirty degree grade and are covered with stoic eucalyptus and redwood trees, which help with the seclusion, the acoustics, and essentially draw the curtain between urban and bucolic. The type of place one could imagine a transient camp, filled with cigar-chomping hobos and sun-baked Okies, being drawn to, until their luck changed or were ran off by the establishment.

The stage was nearly tucked into one hillside and opened out to a yawning, manicured clearing.  The only seating was a half circle of benches, 6-7 rows deep, very close to the stage (orchestra pit style), and a number of picnic tables reserved for those too old, too disabled, or too good to sit on the ground.  The rest of the clearing was cut up into long flat pieces of land; some lined with stone, stepped behind each other, Inca hillside-farming style. Planted upon which were the darlings of San Francisco, sprawled out on their Eddie Bauer picnic blankets and hoisting the finest from Sonoma (Sonoma is the new Napa!) in their Pottery Barn carry-all outdoor dining set, while nibbling their Guerbigny cheese and Chilean organic grapes and the brains of baby Sinhalese monkeys!  Well, that last part is probably made up, but at lease the first three are partially true.

We (Me and the 5 other people I was with) elbowed our way into a spot to the rear of the dell.  As I took out my Tofurkey and mustard sammich and began to eat, Otis Taylor took the stage.  Otis Taylor is an AMAZING blues guitarist.  Otis started playing in folk bands in Colorado (where his family moved to after leaving Chicago) and in 1969 he went to London when it was, ahem…well, calling.  After finding that London’s scene didn’t mix well with his type of songwriting, he moved back to Colorado and then retired in 1977.  He came out of retirement in 2001, after being prodded by his friends and associates, and has been ripping it up ever since.

(Info from www.northernblues.com/bio_taylor.html)

I have to say that Otis’s set seemed stifled, yep, stifled.  Not for a lack of talent or ability, it just seemed that as he and his band played, they kept waiting for the high sign from the audience to let them know to just let it go.  They would launch into a perfectly orchestrated blues song and get to the cusp where they could explode into glory, but when they would usually get waved into home, the audience just yawned and sipped on their pinot noir.  Unfortunately, the most reaction they got from the crowd was when they said goodnight.  Otis, if you’re out there, I’m sorry.  I guess San Francisco only has enough love for the top billed band.

Amadou & Mariam were every bit as good as they were the first time I saw them.  By the time they got to the second “Okay, lets go!” most of the audience was on its respective feet (and probably on others’ feet, also).  Dancing and cavorting in the clearing sans claims of possession, witchcraft, or sins.  (I guess that Cotton decided to sit this one out, too many sinners to burn/drown/take their land.)  Mariam had seemed to learn a bit more English because when they sang “M’ Bife”, she sang “Baby I love you.  Kiss me”, instead of the French that is native to her and the album.  As she sang this song to Amadou, more or less, she rubbed his head as he played the guitar.  I couldn’t help but to think of “Ma Bebe” being far away.  Two weeks ago she went to Ethiopia to work for a NGO and I stayed in the Bay Area.
As the concert came to a close with a wondrous crescendo and a longing in my chest, I day dreamed of “Ma Bebe” and kissing her in the grove under the eucalyptus, on an Eddie Bauer picnic blanket.  Promising admiration and pining for more, we, my compatriots and I, began the slow progression to the car.  With a sigh and final glance at the stage, I sauntered toward the chariot, humming “…cheri je taime, en verite je taime…”