Music

Well, arguably one of my favorite topics, as well as one I know perhaps the least about.

First, a news article some weeks back. You may have read it. It concerned a certain world leader and an ABBA cover band. I don't think the Russian's in general try to hide their love for ABBA (for the record, I have recently come out of the ABBA closet. Super Trouper!) It may, however, not be the best thing for a man attempting to scare people with his stern looks and even sterner policies, to admit to a perhaps unnatural love for ABBA. The story is that Putin may or may not have attended a very private concert of Bjorn Again, an ABBA cover band. How private? There were I believe 8 people in the audience. There was a curtain between the band and these 8 people, though thin and the band has sworn, as there was no non-disclosure contract, that Putin himself was among them. The Kremlin has denied this, and the band says they have been contacted by the Kremlin and asked to stop discussing this. Well, Vlad, it's ok with me if you love ABBA.

Moving on. I've already discussed the Wailers concert. Here are some photos. I had no idea David Cross was moonlighting as a reggae singer!






Then I caught a pretty sweet Russian band at a local club. It's been difficult. Not all the clubs translate their pages into English, my Russian is minimal, and my patience with translating things non-homework, even less. Most of the Russian's I've met are interested only in hip-hop and techno. Through some searching I found a club to see a band called Everything is Made in China. They are from Moscow, but sing in English. Pretty talented trio. Perhaps the scene is a bit dated, but I thoroughly enjoyed it. Backstage was bit interesting, in that it was not. No alcohol to be found! Is this Russia? Is this a band? What? Tea and sandwiches? Have I been invited by the queen?





Nadia has been kind enough to take me along to an art house type place to catch some music. Mostly acoustic. Last night was quite the mix though. Before we arrived there was a children's birthday party. I met one of the gentlemen that played in the band for this rather prestigious event. He looked just like Ron Jeremy. I'm sure the kiddies were not frightened.

We came to see an array of artistic endeavors. Some acoustic guitar (which honestly, is not my favorite form of entertainment, as in my experience, usually the artists are neither gifted guitarists nor vocalists), some incredibly entertaining spoken word, and a short film. The guitar was mostly tolerable. The spoken wordster informed me, earlier in the evening, quite matter of factly, that he is a doctor, a neurologist, not a musician or artist. Well, of course, he ended up being the most entertaining part. While I had nearly zero idea what he was saying, he was beautifully theatrical. The film was quite interesting, but then this is meant to be about music.

After this session was over, everyone leaves and a new audience comes in. For such a tiny joint, it is happening place. So the next session of entertainment is...a Russian Zeppelin cover band. Yes. It's true. How could I not stick around for this? The drummer is wearing pants like David Lee Roth, black and white vertical stripes. Unfortunately, because he is overweight and sporting a massive beard, he looks more like Captain Hooks first mate. When they started, the front man rallied the 60 or so audience members with a Russian version of ACDC's "ARE YOU READY??!!" And then they started. Well the band did, the audience did not. As I mentioned in my bit about the Wailers, Russians seem to overly respect musicians, or perhaps just show it inappropriately. They sat still as if they were at the opera. One girl moved in her chair, but she was the youngest there. I imagine these guys (they were older) had this band during soviet times, which I'm sure would have been dangerous. And did their fans rock then, in some form of rebellion? Or even then did they sit quietly with small smiles and nod their head occasionally. Soviet remnants.

Well, so you have an idea of the audience. The location is surreal. The ceiling is covered in various colors of bright fabric, draped like clouds. And Christmas balls hang from that. I'm sure the children's party was more appropriate in this place.

And the band. Well, I'd guess two were in their early sixties. The guitarist in his early 50's. The bass player was young, my guess is the original succumbed to alcohol poisoning, or the disease of the America's, he succumbed to a middle class job. They were decent showmen, though the guitarist would be better suited as Kyle Gas's understudy. I stayed for 3 songs. Make that 2 and a quarter. After the frontman feebly, nay, brutally attempted the intro to Immigrant Song, I packed it up.

Well I'm glad I witnessed it. My next concert date is for some "acid-jazz" bands. People love Tom Waits here, so I'm stoked to catch these shows.

I really should have some witty closing line here...

Shake Wrist

Recently I had a most bizarre dream. Well, to be fair, I can't comment on the dream itself. I only remember the end. I only remember waking up to someone repeatedly exclaiming, in a most gleeful voice, "Pickle, Pickle, I've got a Nickel!" What? The biggest thing that strikes me here, is that I've never to my knowledge, rhymed in a dream. About pickles and nickels no less. A dream interpreter might read into this my lack of genuine enthusiasm for pickled items and my constant fretting over money. Also my struggle with language. You'll note that the words pickle and nickel sound the same but are spelled altogether differently. I think I had this dream after a pronunciation/dictation class. What else can you garnish from this simple phrase?

I was nearly soaked yesterday. As I was walking home, a marshrutka honked and within seconds, "WOOSH!" The girl 3 feet in front of me was soaked. Her boyfriend had not been walking on the street side of the sidewalk. Grounds for relationship termination if you ask me. I was spared. For what reason I don't know. I have a bad habit of reading everything as a sign, which inevitably leads to contradictory messages.

How do we hail cabs and buses in America? I've never had to. I think it's different than here and SE Asia. In both, you extend your arm out at a 45 degree angle with palm down. A little shake of the wrist adds flair and hopefully gets the attention of the driver as a bonus. It's almost a contest sometimes. If three people hope for a ride in the same marshrutka, they line up and shake wrist vigourously hoping the driver stops in front of them, as there are limited seats on these things. I really enjoy this method of hailing. I think the way you shake wrist says a lot about your personality. Of course, my form changes everytime....

Further proof of my existence.

No great stories here. Except the last one. And even that one, is just a story itself, so just click it to big size and breath it in. I can't possibly explain it better than just looking at.

Hopefully you can see these videos. They are short clips I took on my trip out of town. They would make great openers to a horror film in Siberia.














Vyborg. We were meant to go to Novgorod, but transport proved too difficult to figure out. Even to Vyborg, we had to go to 3 places before we could even find how to get tickets. Using a varitey of sources, I have ascertained how to get to Novgorod, and will journey there this weekend. As I can find no central source of information. I plan to copy all the names of destinations from the board in the train station. Then maybe I'll just draw a name out of a hat on my next day off.




I want to take this down and put it in my house. How chic would I be?




This is the most daunting "Cloak Chamber" I've ever seen.

Getcher hair did and a brew at the "Hairdressing Saloon"



If you click on the photo to see the large version, you see that the sign says, "Exit to the city". This just amused me. Like there's some sort of Willy Wonka door, and when you enter it, its a land of pure imagination!



Vyborg!


"AHHHHH, get this bear off my leg!"


Again, clicking on the photo for the large size, you see this is a giant pile of scrap metal from Kazakhstan. Or maybe its scrap metal destined for Kazakhstan. Maybe that's what they build their houses out of. Old metal from the great white north of Russia.















I just love the lady on the side of the building. Close up below.




An Orthodox church:














So as we're walking, we see this girl walking with an owl on her arm. Then as we're desperately searching for a restaurant, we find one called "Sava", or Owl. It was this or a place called Kamelot. I often believe too much in signs. This was one of those times. While the place was really cute, the food was nothing to speak of; except I just did. Anyway, it did provide this great photo op!













I have a thing for frozen water. Especially when it occurs in less than comfortable places. What does that even mean? It's early. Anyway, I like the way these gutters just hang off the side of the building. I mean, in summer, does rain just shoot on the passers-by? And when it just starts to warm up do icicles shoot off the side? Ok, maybe I'm being too imaginative, but its a funny image.


















So one of the videos above is a man with a giant "Screw". It took me a bit to figure out why the train was full of men with giant screws. They're ice fishermen! While I didn't get to go fishing with them that day, its on my list of things to do....well photograph anyway. I don't fish.







St. Cog. Patron saint of "The Machine"...and I don't mean Jordan....








This building reminds me of Sweden. But then Vyborg was inhabited by Swedes I think, so I imagine they left their mark.



This is great. Finish the outside first. Make sure you get the sign up in nice gold letters. We'll worry about the inside structure later. Just make sure people know its going to be great...one day.

TightRolled Transportative Nugget Java

I tight rolled my jeans and went to a reggae concert Sunday. What does this mean? Well, the second is a cry for help. Please help me find any kind of live music. Especially if it is in a language I understand. I will say though that reggae grows on me more and more every time I travel. It’s amazing how often you run across Bob Marley in hostels. Tiny little places in Lao were blasting Bob Marley. One place I stayed advertised Rasta Pasta. When you travel, you find yourself craving any kind of recognizable music. If you travel long enough without hearing music in your own language, and then stumble upon a Kelly Clarkston CD, you will find yourself a huge Kelly Clarkson fan. So I have become a minor fan of reggae. Michael Franti helps. If you don’t have Rebel Rockers, go buy it now. I listen to it every day.

Why did I tight roll my jeans? Honestly, it was just so they wouldn’t get dirty and wet on my way to the concert. I looked just like an Asheville gutter punk. But the funny thing is, people kept looking at me with…admiration? I could see them thinking, “wait, is there a fashion from the 80’s we aren’t already still clinging to?” I’ve bought quite a few items of clothing here I would laugh at people for wearing back home. But I have little choice. It’s what is available. I bought a green faux leather bomber jacket, that I love. I bought fingerless gloves. I find myself nearly buying coats that would make anyone look like the Michelin man.

Anyways, after much trial and tribulation I went to see the Wailers Sunday. It wasn’t the raw reggae fest I was looking for. It was a few rastas and some average Russians. They hardly moved to the music. At first I thought it was because they couldn’t understand what the guy was saying, but I realized eventually that they did, they just weren’t moved. Perhaps it’s a cultural thing. There is a history of theatre and ballet here. Maybe it’s just normal to watch a performance and not actively participate. You wouldn’t jump up in the middle of an orchestral performance and start ball room dancing. It was a bit of a downer, but maybe just something to get used to?

Let’s talk about transport for a moment. One of my favorite subjects. In St. Pete, there are a plethora of types of transport. My favorite and the easiest, the metro. Unfortunately, there is not a metro stop near every place I want to go. For instance, it isn’t really useful to go to school. To go to the main shopping mall, you take the metro to the last stop and then hop the free Ikea bus. In addition to the metro, one can take a bus, a trolley bus, a tram, a taxi, a marshrutka, or a private car (this does not in fact mean your own car.) So a trolley bus is a bus with wires above. A tram is on rails. Fairly uncomplicated. Taxi, I’m sure you’re aware. Marshrutka? This is a privately run affair, not affiliated with the state run transportation. They are usually minivans, or something in between a minivan and a bus. Due to their size, they can get through traffic quicker, and due to their quickness, they cost more than state funded public transport. Unlike a bus, they don’t have designated stops. Which brings me to my real point. We actually had a session in school devoted to “How to communicate with Marshrutka drivers.” Which I still don’t have the hang of. Usually I just hope someone asks to get off near where I’m going. While very convenient as a mode of transport, I don’t enjoy yelling from the back of the bus when I want to stop, and it isn’t always convenient to determine where these “buses” are going. There is a list of some highlights of their route on the side of the van, but that doesn’t always mean they go where you’re going. You may still end up walking 20 minutes if you grab the wrong one. And payment on these buses is kind of on the honor system. You pass your money up to the front and if you have change, it is passed back to you. Now of course, I’ve thought, “How bout I just don’t pay, will the driver even notice?” I think these people have been bred to rat others out though, so I haven’t tried it. I’m sure some babushka will cry “Citizens arrest” or the Russian equivalent. Private cars are an interesting institution. Hitchhiking is an actual mode of common transportation in this city. If you want to go somewhere without the bus, I guess for moderately long distances, or; you know I really don’t know why you do this. Maybe you’re just tired of waiting in the cold for the bus. But anyway, you just stand on the side of the street and put your hand out and eventually a car will stop. You negotiate a price and hop in. There are a lot of retirees that just drive around town acting like taxis. We also had a session in class about how to communicate with the private car drivers, but I’m not inclined to use this mode of transportation.

I got a bit tipsy the other night. As happens when you choose to debauch until 6am. As I stumbled home from the hostel I had crashed at for a few hours, I got that well known feeling; I needed grease. Thankfully the metro dumps out at a Макдоналдз. As I stood in line to order my Биг Теисти (which as I look at this, I realize that anyone with some knowledge of Russian and English could easily be tricked into seeing “big teste”), a Russian woman came up behind me to ask about the menu. Let me point out that at the Mcdonalds, most things have the same name, just transliterated into Cyrillic. For example: Chicken McNuggets = Чикен Макнеггетс or something like that. Well it stands to reason that “chicken” in Russian is not just “chicken” with different letters. So a woman comes up to me and asks me in Russian, “What is Chicken McNuggets?, is it meat?” First of all, that cracks me up. But it only cracks me up now. In my half drunken stupor, I didn’t think it an odd question, somehow, in my half drunken stupor, I realized that this was my chance to use being an American as a positive thing. I could share my knowledge of the great American food, “Chicken McNuggets”….I screwed it up. Michael, you may see where this is going. There is a very small difference between the word for Chicken and the word for Cinnamon, and I do believe I told her that a Чикен Макнеггет was made of cinnamon. A box of fried cinnamon balls. Poor lady. Probably thought she was getting a nice desert. My future as a goodwill ambassador is finished I’m afraid.

Those of you who kept up with me in Belgium will remember my persistent annoyance with the general lack of interest in good coffee. There is no lack of interest in coffee, they drink it all the time, but astronaut coffee is made for astronauts. There are even fewer coffee beans in this country. Nescafe, etc. The Russian favorite- Tchibo. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe in some of the cafes, I’m getting some sort of actual ground bean that is then put through some kind of grinding, boiling, extracting process. But often, this is not the case. Yesterday, I paid 3 dollars for some sort of highly acidic brown muck. And then it dawned on me. Soylent brown is people! You’ll remember that a few weeks ago I saw a dead man at the bus stop. A friend of mine imparted a story on me of his similar experience. Unfortunately for him, he watched the man die, then watched an old babushka actually step on the man to get in the bus. Then while he waited for his bus, he watched a truck pull up, open the back hatch and throw the body in. A garbage truck for bodies. Now his account is from the early 90’s, so perhaps the value of a life has improved. Or perhaps not. All I’m saying is, in a country where the value of life is sometimes marginal; in a country where capitalism struggles under corruption; in a country where there is little regard for the quality of a cup of java: perhaps Soylent Brown is people.

I do exist.

Nothing like starting a blog with a naked man holding a pig mask:




I haven't put any pics of me up in a while, so here's some. Proof that I do exist and its not a phantom writing these blogs!

In this one, my eye is being crushed by my hat, but ignore that.




Here I'm contemplating the upteenth bowl I've been served of Russian dodgy meat ravioli.



And yes, this is my usual fare.



Jesus, I'm getting really sick of dodgy meat ravioli. But I will say, finding Irn Bru today really brightened dinner!

I don't really have anything profound to say. My head is still marinating in beer.