Brad Spurgeon's Blog

A world of music, auto racing, travel, literature, chess, wining, dining and other crazy thoughts….

Of Air Travel, Guitars and Hostage Takings

June 29, 2010
bradspurgeon

I think I might have mentioned that going to Valencia last Thursday I was held at the airport in Paris for nearly five hours thanks to the strike by many civil servants, and in this case in particular it was the air controllers. We spent at least two hours sitting on the aircraft during that departure, and it cost me most of the day of work in Valencia at the Formula One race.

Did I mention that I had run into another problem too? Concerning my guitar? Last year I travelled, as I have said, all around the world going to all the Formula One races with my guitar as carry-on luggage on all sorts of airplanes and the only time I ever encountered a problem was on a Singapore Airlines flight from Paris to Singapore. They would not allow me to take my guitar into the cabin of the airplane as hand luggage. It was the first and only time this had happened, but they told me the guitar would go in a safe area in storage, as a fragile object, and it would not be thrown into the hold with the baggage.

I had no choice but to agree. But you can imagine how surprised I was when I discovered that the Singapore Airlines aircraft in question was in fact the A380, the largest airplane in the world – the monster of an aircraft that holds up to 500 or so passengers. And so it was that the only aircraft that said it had no room for my guitar was the biggest in the world. I travel with a soft case around the guitar, so I was worried. But it survived just fine.

Well, going to Valencia last week I had booked on Iberia, the Spanish national airline, as I have often done in the past. When I got to the airport, however, I learned that the flight was not run by Iberia but by Vueling, a crappy little low-cost trash airline of some kind. At the check-in I was told that I could not take my guitar with me in the cabin; “Company rules at Vueling.”

I put up a bit of a fight and complained and said it was absurd, etc. But I could do nothing. They took the guitar, but they assured me it would be put in a place for fragile objects. I remembered the Singapore flight and accepted. But when I met Pepe, the singer and guitar player I have mentioned in previous posts – who plays in open mics in Paris but who is from Valencia – he told me he never had a problem taking his guitar in the cabin on Vueling.

Okay, so now things get interesting in more than one way.

Upon arriving at the airport in Valencia yesterday to return to Paris I was again told at the check-in desk that I could not take the guitar aboard. “Company rules,” I was told. Then the man looked at a sheet of paper and said, “Not only that, but you will have to put the guitar in the hold and paid 20 euros.”

“What?”

“Yes, on Vueling you pay for extra luggage.”

“But I booked on Iberia.”

“If you were going to Barcelona or Madrid or something you would have been on an Iberia flight, but Iberia flights direct to Valencia from Paris are operated by Vueling.”

I argued and said that it was all crap, and that even if I had had this problem on the way over, I had not been asked to pay 20 euros and I had been told the guitar would go in a space for fragile objects.

I was directed to the Vueling ticket counter where I was told by a bitter woman that there is no such thing as a space for fragile objects, that all objects went in the regular hold. Moreover, it was Vueling company rules to charge 20 euros for the extra luggage.

I want to point out that both flights – it turned out – were in aircraft that had plenty of room to hold the guitar in the overhead luggage area. It was one of those overhead luggage things where you have a massively large space that spills over two three or more sets of seats. In other words, a guitar can lie down in there no problem.

I put up a fight and said it was extraordinary that I was being so badly treated and so inconsistently treated. It was taking a musician hostage emotionally. My Seagull S6 guitar is not an expensive one, but I was lucky with it and the sound is fabulous and unique. It has been complimented all over the world by guitar players. I got lucky with the wood, the construction, etc., and if it was ever broken or lost, I could not replace it.

Of course, I lost this battle and I was held hostage for the whole flight wondering if my guitar would be there in one piece when I returned to Paris.

That was as an emotional hostage, I repeat. But what then happened in Paris got even better: We arrived on time and taxied quickly up to our stopping point on the tarmac in a rainy, dark, hot Paris Orly airport. We waited a little while, longer than I expected, and then the captain of the light announced that the ground staff of the airport had called a strike some 50 minutes prior to our landing. We would not be let out of the aircraft.

Yes, that is right: The passengers were held hostage by the ground staff of the Orly airport who were on strike and did not want to roll up the ladder to the aircraft door. Fortunately we only waited 40 to 45 minutes in the aircraft. But it was not a very pleasant experience as I think we all had visions of sitting there all night long. And I wondered how long the aircraft could operate its air conditioning, etc.

When I got out finally I went to try to recuperate my bags and the guitar. I spend some 20 minutes waiting for the guitar with no sign of it. There was no ground staff anywhere to ask why all the other bags had come out – including my own – but not the guitar. When I went to try to find someone in a far off part of the airport, I suddenly noticed out of the corner of my eye at the opposite end of the luggage room on a belt in a lonely pile of fragile and large objects, my guitar case. I had come through a separate door and surely, surely it seemed it had been located in another part of the airplane’s hold. In any case, it was and is all of a piece. I sighed relief. But I feel enormous resentment and will never fly Vueling again. I suggest that all musicians carrying instruments should also boycott Vueling.

During my travels last year I somehow received a piece of paper showing legislation in the United States that guitar players should carry around that says that within the United States, in any case, guitars cannot be rejected from the cabin. There’s a great reason for that, too, I’d say: They always fit and musicians do not deserve being treated like lower class citizens, do they?!!

The Liberating Experience of Failure

June 28, 2010
bradspurgeon

That’s it. No place to play my guitar and sing in Valencia, Spain. This is the first time in more than a year and a half that I have devoted four days to searching for an open mic, a jam session or other place where an amateur singer can get up and sing his or her heart out in front of an audience at a Formula One race venue, and failed to find one.

Since I began this adventure at the start of the 2009 season – although the first place I played, that really started it all was in Shanghai in October 2008 – I have managed to find a place to sing and play at every Formula One race venue. Can you believe it? Even in places like Liege, Cologne, Kuala Lumpur and Nagoya I was able to find places – sometimes several – to sing and play.

I was occasionally thrown right to the limit, to the edge, and only found something on the last night. But I always succeeded. Always.

Here, now, in Valencia where I write these words and where I have spent the last four nights searching endlessly for a venue to play, I have failed. Last night I found a wonderful old town quarter near my hotel in the center of the city, and the area was full of restaurants, bars, walls covered with graffiti and cool young people … and no live music. It reminded me, in fact, of that area of the bars in Barcelona off the Ramblas that I mentioned when I was there a couple of months ago. But no, nothing, no live music… except for a saxophone playing busker, a guitar playing busker and a young guy in a public square playing an acoustic guitar with some friends.

I might have done that, but busking is not really a part of this adventure, since I could do that anywhere.

So I am faced with failure for the first time. And suddenly, I feel a sense of liberation. Failure in this case, I realize, simply enhances and gives quality to all the other trips I went on and all the success that I had in finding a place to play. I went to the limit, scrounged, begged, asked people, searched the Internet, and I always found something. One of the most outstanding examples of just squeezing in something on the limit was in Milan last year during the Italian Grand Prix when I found absolutely nothing at all in that musically dead city – unless you want opera – and then finally after hours on the Internet I discovered an announcement at the longest running and oldest anarchists’ association that there was an open jam session on the Saturday evening. I had the time of my life, and it was so fitting that in order to have a an open jam session or open mic in Milan it had to be through a group of anarchists.

Now, in Valencia, land of great guitars and other music, I have finally failed! It validates the rest, makes it more valuable, and I can go away feeling as if I have now had a unique experience in Valencia the way I have had unique experiences everywhere else. It also teaches me a larger lesson for life, about failure. Even, for example, in personal relationships: It takes a failure or two to really be able to appreciate the relationships that last and that work. Right? So no point collapsing under failure. As long as it doesn’t happen that often, it’s better to rejoice and search again.

Thanks Valencia, you unmusical, stick-in-the-mud, boring fucking town!

It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue – and El Loco

June 27, 2010
bradspurgeon

It’s getting worse. Lots of live music around Valencia if you search for it, but nothing open to just anyone to get up and play – at least not this weekend, as the jams seem to be more like the Monday and/or Tuesday.

So last night I decided to check out El Loco club for some live music, of some kind of tribute band. It was a nice walk over through the center of the city through the beautiful buildings of the downtown area. But once I got there I discovered it cost 15 euros to go in to hear the band. Through the front doors the music sounded no better than what I’d heard at the Black Note, and the crowd looked about a third the size. Yeah, like who wants to play 15 euros for a halfassed tribute band? Not me. I decided that I would return to my hotel and continue playing for myself.

Thing is, I cannot go through this trip without playing at least SOMEWHERE in Valencia, and I have only one more dreary night to find a venue. So I decided to practice “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue,” by Bob Dylan. This is a song I usually do with the cap on the second fret. But I’ve noticed in recent times that I end up losing my voice on it quite often. So I decided to give it a try with no capo. I seemed to be able to handle the highs and lows, but I’m far from satisfied. In fact, this video I took of myself in my hotel room last night in Valencia was the first take, and I made a mess of some of my favorite lines, and a mess of some of the rhythm and a mess of the filming, I find there are far too many Dylanesque inflections in my voice – ie, I haven’t made it entirely mine yet – but since this is a blog and I profess to be amateur as far as music goes, and I defend that since I’m looking for places around the world where any amateur can play, I’ve decided to put the video up at the risk of embarrassment. I mean, this is the first race ever where I have failed to find a place to play – no, I still have tonight and Monday morning. Perhaps I’ll do a video of me singing in the shower on Monday…okay, I’ll spare you that one.

From the Kaf Cafe to the Wah Wah…With Nothing in Between

June 26, 2010
bradspurgeon

My second night in Valencia proved to be as big a deception on the open mic/jam front as the first night, and I feel as if I’m really edging toward the first Formula One race venue ever for me where I will not have found a place to play and sing. Oh, well, that’s not quite true – I’ve been playing every night in my hotel room before going out to dinner, but that’s to no audience.

I mentioned in my previous post that I met Pepe, the Spanish singer and guitar player from the Paris open mic scene, at the airport on my way to Valencia. The last thing he said to me as we departed at the airport in Valencia was, “It’s not like Paris here.”

But he had told me that I should check out a place called Kaf Cafe, a coffeehouse-like joint where they sell alcoholic beverages nevertheless, and where he said it was sometimes possible to play. So I went there last night only to find it in full swing with a night of a tribute to a professor and some kind of Mexican theme. I’m afraid my Spanish is non-existent and I had to depend on French sorting out the Spanish to understand that much.

But the night was a real breath of fresh air culturally, and I am sure that it would be a great place to play – when that is possible. The name is as it sounds, a play on the name of Franz Kafka and “cafe.” It’s a nice sized, long room with bookshelves full of books, a nice little stage and a bar, sofas, a bicycle on the wall, and an art exhibit. This is hip, cool, very much the kind of place I’d love to hang around in. I tried, in fact, to look at every possible way of presenting myself to do some music, but I could see it was just not going to work.

There was a kind of poetry reading with a guitarist backing the speaker; another group consisting of a man on cello and another on guitar and vocals; and a group of women who sang something and with a couple of guitar playing women thrown in too. It reminded me of the vibe I felt in Sao Paulo, actually, on the all-night jam I did there after the race last year. But here at Kaf Cafe, it was not open to anyone to play.

The crowd ranged from babies to grandparents and with everything in between, and I was content to sit, drink a beer and listen. But I was itching to try my luck in another part of town, where I had read there were one or to other venues, so I left.

I took a cab over to the university area and sought out the Wah Wah, which I read a review of that had this to say: “A rocking and grooving live music club in a student friendly zone. Mostly local and national bands loving it live, week in and week out. International groups like The Frank and Walters and The Sugarman hree play in spacious surroundings with a relaxed, open and bohemian crowd.”

Well, yes, that describes it well. The only thing that is not clear in that picture is that the crowd I saw last night was insanely young. I am not lying or exaggerating when I say that the majority of them looked 13, 14 years old. But this place sells beer and alcohol and there were some adults around as well. So I don’t know what was happening but I had the impression there may have been a special event for an end of school year party, or something like that.

The band was pretty young, but not that young, and not that charismatic either. The volume was not ear-shattering. But couldn’t take much of it, and I had seen enough within half an hour to know that I would never have a chance to play there, so I decided to leave and check out the rest of the area. There were lots of other bars, but none with live music from what I could see. I did, however, find a park that looked full of students, and I saw the occasional guitar there with people strumming and playing. That, I thought, might end up my last resort if I really MUST find a place to play in Valencia.

But I hold out hope and will continue the search. Oh, yes, Monday my flight is late, so there’s always the beach – as Pepe also suggested to me…. Strange, all this, however, given that this is guitar-building territory around here….

The Open Mic I did not do in Valencia, and a Visit to the Black Note Club

June 25, 2010
bradspurgeon

This is a story for the Internet age, I think. Or maybe not. Let’s just say that I went from being ecstatic to finding a place to play in Valencia, Spain, a port town on the Mediterranean coast that is hosting the European Grand Prix this weekend, to being gutted when I finally realized I had made a terrible mistake.

The advantage to Spain is that the open mics don’t start usually until very late, since dinner doesn’t begin till very late, since everyone takes a siesta and avoids the heat – right? Probably. In any case, I should jump back a bit and mention first a funny meeting at the airport in Paris yesterday on the way to Spain, because it is relevant to the story.

As I chatted with some Formula One racing journalist colleagues of mine I noticed a familiar face at the airport. It was Pepe, a Spaniard I had met at the Baroc open mic in the Marais several months ago. I have then run into him at the Pop In and at Ptit Bonheur la Chance. Pepe is a student of contemporary East Asian history in Paris, but he comes from Valencia and was returning for a wedding. He plays guitar and sings when not studying.

So I asked him if he knew of any place for me to play in an open mic or jam in Valencia. He said I should go to the Black Note on Monday. I told him that I was not going to be here Monday, that I was leaving for Paris again, but that I had learned that the Black Note was also doing a jam session that night, last night, on Thursday.

Pepe was very puzzled about this, but I brushed it off. The Black Note is one of the top places for rock music in Valencia, and on Mondays it has an open jam session.

In my fatigue – the French strike meant waiting nearly five hours in the airport and on the plane for my flight to leave Paris – I mistook the Black Note for a club I had found called Steinway’s Jazz y Blues Club. Kind of hard to imagine how I did that, but I did.

Anyway, now back to Valencia. No, wait, let’s take ANOTHER step backwards in time: On Wednesday in Paris I had called up Jon Turner, who runs the Steinway’s jam, as he indicates on the Internet that we should call in advance. He told me it was more karaoke on Thursdays and an open mic on Mondays. But I then told him I was coming to Valencia only until early evening Monday and that I could not make it on the Monday. So he kindly offered to allow me to play last night anyway, with my guitar and my voice, despite it not being entirely the right night for it.

NOW back to Valencia. So the bits of the puzzle start fitting together. I had a nice meal near my hotel in a restaurant in the center of the city – Spain’s third largest city – and then I headed just down the street, for what I assumed would be no more than a 10 minute walk to the address of Steinway’s: Calle del la Mar, 16. I used a map and my iPhone above all, to see exactly how far and what route to take from my hotel to the venue, and it looked simple.

When I arrived, however, I could not find No. 16, or if I eventually did, there was nothing much there that looked like any musical venue, bar or even club. I went into a neighboring restaurant and they didn’t know what I was talking about with any open mic or music or bar named Steinway’s.

I then asked people out on the street and they told me I was on the right road, but they didn’t know the club. I walked all around the area, back and forth, up and down, and it was sometime near midnight that I did another internet search on my iPhone and the terrible truth suddenly occurred to me: I had the address right, I had the name of the club right, and I had the day right. The detail I had not noticed on the web site where I found the information – a web site devoted to information all about Valencia – was that the venue was located in a distant, distant suburb or something or other town on the sea called Denia. It said clearly on the second link offering the full details of the event that it was located in Denia, but I must have taken that for a neighborhood of the city of Valencia. In fact, it was a town 106 kilometers away.

Decompression. Fatigue. Horror. Not to mention a city that looked thoroughly dead and asleep at only midnight!

So I then decided that I would go to the Black Note and see what was happening. There I found a cool club, bought a beer, listened to a cover band, and then it turned out that at around 1 AM there was a stripper doing a burlesque act. I left after that, and realized that I had been so close to learning time after time that my venue was not in Valencia after all, but in Denia, but the information never quite got through. Not with Pepe, not with Jon Turner, not with anyone in the street, and not even on that web site that advertised the open mic.

My feeling of foolishness was only slightly smaller than my feeling of anger and upset that I may well not find a venue to play in here in Valencia, since I find nothing else for the moment, and no one knows of anything else. If this happens, it will be the first time at a Formula One race that I fail to find a place to play. Which tells you something about Valencia, I think.

The Lesson of the Bus Palladium – After Work

June 23, 2010
bradspurgeon

I already mentioned the Bus Palladium before on this blog. Now I have another mention, and I’ll have to do it fast as I prepare to leave for Valencia, Spain early tomorrow morning. But I HAD to get it up here.

The lesson is the same one I have had so many times since embarking on this musical adventure in November 2008. It is the lesson of taking a chance, changing your habits, going out purposefully on what you think is a proverbial “limb.” Because that is the way to get somewhere you might find fantastically agreeable.

Last night, I had the option of going to the usual Tuesday offerings that I am in the habit of doing; ie, the open mic at either Au Ptit Bonjeur la Chance or the one a Le Baroc. Well, it turns out that I was in a terrible state last night and did not want to go anywhere. So I decided that I would push myself to do something different. The invitation fell into my Facebook, and it came from Cyril Bodin, who organizes soirées and music at Bus Palladium.

It was just a general announcement saying that there were still tables for dinner open at the Bus Palladium‘s restaurant on the first floor where every Tuesday Bodin organizes his After Work evening of a meal and music by musicians on the small stage, mostly cover songs. This is not the large stage on the ground floor made so famous by so many musicians, including the Rolling Stones, as I mentioned before. This is the upper restaurant.

I had glanced in once and seen that it looked like a cool restaurant and was not overly pricey. So I called up and ordered a table for one – with potentially two, as I had a few other people in mind to invite but finally settled for enjoying my own company – and I then called up Bodin and asked him if this was an open mic night. The announcement on Facebook speaks of Cyril Bodin and friends, or something of that sort, providing the music. So I thought there might be a way for me to play.

Bodin, it turned out, did not remember who I am. We had met, I swear it, at the Truskell when I did one of Earle’s open mics, and so I thought this particular faceboook friend was a friend. But it turned out he didn’t know me from the 5,000 other friends he has. Understandable.

He sounded very hesitant, asked if I was a professional musician, etc., and it became clear that this was not at all an open mic. But at the same time he held the door open and said I might be able to do something that it could possibly be arranged.

I hung up and had to weigh things. If it’s not an open mic, I’m a stage crasher. But he said maybe I could play. So maybe I should go. Then I thought, “All right, go have the meal, enjoy yourself, read your magazines and books and have a good glass of wine or two. Take the guitar and see what happens. Don’t invite anyone.”

So that’s what I did. I found a semi-posh restaurant with a simple menu and several tables that were just bursting with people who all seemed to work at the same company, and when I had got to the door I could have sworn they asked if I was with EMI. So perhaps that’s who was dining there. In any case, I ordered a meal and listened to the music.

The meal was fine, though not haute cuisine by any standard. My bass filet was very good, especially the vegetables.

The music was very, very good. A guitar player and singer and a piano player and singer and Cyril who mostly provided backup vocals. They played cover songs, nothing but cover songs, famous ones, “I almost cut my haiiirrrrr.” You know, 60s and early 70s stuff. Very agreeable, and the singer, it turned out, was French, but his accent in English was soo good that I thought he was English.

But as the night progressed and Cyril and his musicians played for more than an hour, I thought there was no chance for me. And I was disappointed because I loved the room and the crowd and I wanted badly to sing, even if I did not think I was perhaps as good as Cyril and his singer.

Then slowly my hopes began to rise. Another singer went up, and he looked like a Cyril “friend.” And then suddenly a group of young guys arrived, looking rather rocky, and after a few minutes they began waving to me. It took my a moment to realize that it was the band “Natas Loves You,” whom I mentioned earlier on this blog. We spoke and they told me they were going to sing shortly, and Cyril approached them and spoke to them, and I realized this really was Cyril and friends.

So I went up to Cyril again and asked if there would be a place for me, and he told me I could play after Natas Loves You. I said “great,” but separately to the band I said, “That doesn’t work in my favor.” They’re so good. You don’t want to follow someone that good. Anyway, they asked me to play a Bob Dylan and a Cat Stevens, as they remembered me doing those and liked it. That pumped up my sense of self-worth, and I said that’s what I had planned on doing anyway.

So they went up, and then I went up and sang my two songs, and as I started the Cat Stevens, “Father and Son,” the piano player of Cyril’s original band, came up and played piano while I did the guitar and vocals. This was now becoming a dynamite situation for me. But I stopped after the two songs, as Cyril had asked only for two. Later he said I could have done more, and the same was said to me by a couple of friends, Celine and Marion, who had shown up and listened and encouraged me as usual.

I received some nice warm applause and a diner at the table next to mine later congratulated me on a great performance.

So, well, there’s the lesson. I was just floating with happiness and excitement and release as I played in the famous Bus Palladium, and I never believed at the beginning when I set out on the empty evening that I would have such a chance. But I pursued the goal and achieved it. So that’s the lesson. Just go for it, do it and attack. Take risks and try new stuff and don’t get caught in life-denying habits. Jeez, and I thought this was supposed to be a short post!!!!

My only regret was that I forgot to take my Zoom Q3 with me, so had to make due with the iPhone for videos. I like the one I did with Natas Loves You singing a Beatles song while I checked out the bathroom with its bathtub handwashing bowl and the music from the restaurant piped in.

The Uncool Fête de la Musique

June 22, 2010
bradspurgeon

Dear X:

You were right, the French Fête de la Musique, or one-day musical festival on 21 June every year since 1982, is not cool. I had not experienced the Fête de la Musique in probably a couple of decades, and my memories of it were that it was splendid. All of Paris became one giant concert hall with musicians, groups, semi-musicians, half-musicians, full musicians, playing in the street acoustically, with amps, with radios and DJ sound systems, you name it – music everywhere.

So when you recently told me that the cool people stay in on the night of the Fête de la Musique in Paris, I must admit that I felt you were being overly cool, a little pretentious and pretty complicated too. But it now turns out that I have had a fresh experience with the Fête de la Musique, and I am sorry to have to admit that you were right about this, as you were with so many of the things that I misjudged you on. (Though I do not want to get carried away and say you were right about everything, because I know for sure that is not the case!)

There is always a small chance that my experience walking the streets of Paris last night in the Fête de la Musique was negatively colored also by the fact that I was doing it alone, without you, and therefore had a little grudge against the world and was seeing it through the dark glasses of my heart at the moment. But I don’t think so. I think you were just plain RIGHT.

And here’s why: Monday night being a good night for open mics and me being one who goes out as often as I’m alone to sing on a Monday night, I decided I would again seek out last week’s two venues. These, you will remember, were the Tennessee Bar and the Galway pub near St. Michel. Well, the first horror was taking the metro from Duroc to Odéon and finding the thing so jam packed with people going to see and hear the Fête de la Musique that although there was just enough room for me, there was no room for my guitar. I received some dirty looks from people for daring to think of carrying a guitar into a packed Métro – on the Fête de la Musique.

I also felt rather dorky and uncool carrying the guitar around as if I only did so on the day of the Fête de la Musique, when in fact I do it all the time. But I will return to that theme in a moment. Once I got out of the Métro at Odéon and went to the Tennessee bar for the open mic my worst fear was confirmed: I walked into the bar and the barwoman said, “There’s no open mic tonight. I thought James told everyone. He’s playing at the Moose.”

Okay, so the previous week, no doubt, James the MC did probably tell everyone there would be no open mic. But I had left well before the end to go to the Galway, so I didn’t hear it if he said it, and it was my own fault anyway. Still, the basement room was empty, and why not do an open mic anyway with another MC!? After all, it’s the Fête de la Musique.

Let’s move on. I then went to the Galway and found a soccer game of the World Cup on the television and a full crowd of soccer lovers. I asked the barwoman if there was an open mic.

“No, there isn’t,” she said. “But after the football game there will be a concert, and if you want, you can play. But it is not an open mic, it is a concert.”

This, at least, was more in the spirit of a Fête de la Musique. But it said this to me: Game ends between 10 and 10:30? Then the band prepares to play and plays and maybe if I’m lucky I’ll get to do a song sometime near midnight? Not worth the gamble, or the wait, I thought.

And in any case, I said, tonight is the Fête de la Musique in Paris, and maybe I should look around, and maybe I’ll be asked to play somewhere in the street or in a bar, when my guitar is spotted – you know, like in Istanbul, that music-loving city.

So I set out on a long, long walk through Paris, heading through several different districts, St. Michel, Les Halles, Oberkampf, Belleville, and elsewhere. And all along the way the city blared with music, just like in Istanbul, in fact. And here as you went from one quarter to another you often ran into the kind of music of the prevalent population of the quarter, as in Arab music in some places, African in others, French chanson in others.

But guess what? My growing feeling, actually it was pretty immediate, was one of disgust, a letdown and a feeling of a lack of authenticity. When I walk through the streets of Istanbul in a wall of sound in every street at nighttime, I know that it is part of the local culture. It is natural, and it happens EVERY DAY. Here in Paris last night, I had the sense of a fake culture being slapped on the usual staid and boring and silent world of the French capital. (Or rather, those parts of Paris that are usually able to be characterized thus.)

And I said to myself, too, “Where the hell do all these musicians come from? Why do I not see and hear them every other day of the year?” Actually, truth be told, I would not have WANTED to hear most of them every day of the year, and once was enough. My feeling was, you see, exactly what you were trying to tell me, I think: That suddenly all the weekend guitar players come out of their bedrooms to go into the street and “play Bohemian” on the one day in the year that it is not only permitted, but condoned. Whereas the people in your world – and also in mine, Dear X – are full-time bohemians and music lovers and committed to a love of music ALL the time.

One day a year for a Fête de la Musique? Get out of here. I think the people who had the best idea about the whole thing were the 239 thieves the Paris and regional police force arrested for petty crimes last night. Yeah, man, I hope they got a few of those guitars!!!!!

I considered recording some videos of the bands and the ambience with my Zoom Q3 for this blog as I always do on my musical adventures. Then I said, “No, don’t! Don’t stoop that low.”

So, once again Dear X, I must apologize to you for underestimating your understanding on a point of great importance – although again I will not go so far as to admit being wrong about everything! There were, for example, some cool, committed and hip bands playing about town, like The Shades, and as my son said, the ideal thing to do to really Fête la Musique, would have been to go listen to a concert pianist or an orchestra, or something that pop music lovers don’t usually do. That would really be paying hommage to music. But for the most part, you were also right, this was nothing more than another example of the hysteria surrounding the marketing tool known as Beaujolais Nouveau – it has a sweet and exciting smell to it, but no depth and is often downright unpalatable….

From the Bellers to the Puppini Sisters, by Way of Shakespeare and Co.

June 20, 2010
bradspurgeon

Just wanted to lay down a post about the last couple of days in Paris where the accent, for me, was more on listening to live music than in playing it myself. (No, I played as much as usual, but at home, not in public.)

Thursday night, spent quite while looking for an open mic but found nothing. Used to be one called Open House Thursday at a club called Belushi’s. That was a good one because the room was in a hostel, in the basement, so it meant a good crowd. The sound system was good, and it started late, so there was no rush to get there. But it ended last summer. For a while there was a jam session at the Caméleon bar on rue St. André des Arts, just a few meters away from the Tennessee and also run by James of the Tennessee. But it looks as if that stopped too. So I resigned myself to not playing anywhere and stayed at home and organized my life – for once.

Friday night I took my guitar with me and went to the Point Ephemere to see two bands I know, Holstenwall and The Bellers. I was mostly interested in The Bellers, as two of its members are very good and supportive guys I know from my days at Earle’s open mic. These are Romain on vocals and guitar and Marc Zeller on bass. Marc briefly ran an open mic in the Marais, at a bar called the Baroc. There he invited me regularly and there I met the TalkiWalki DJ Emeric Degui who suggested I try his radio show’s music contest.

The Bellers were very cool, and I love the room they play in at the Point Ephemere. But unfortuately I found the sound too loud and lacking focus. Normally, however, my Zoom Q3 filters out all the noise and gives an idea what the music really sounds like – so I did some videos of them not only for the blog, but also to hear better what the music sounded like! And it works, you will see if you listen to the video the sound sounds fine.

After that I went to the only open mic I know of on Fridays, which is located near the Belleville metro and is called the Culture Rapide barman’s open stage night, or something similar if you translate it from French. This is an open mic where there is no mic. But the bar is small and the crowd is usually friendly. Unfortunately, on Friday there was no crowd. In fact, the weather was so nice that people sat outside and around the corner to drink and in the bar there was only the bartender and two clients and the guy who runs the open mic. In other words, no performers and no audience. So I bought a beer and then left.

Last night, it was a visit to the former venue called the Locomotive, but which is now called La Machine du Moulin Rouge, and which is located beside the world famous burlesque house of the Moulin Rouge. Now this was a night to remember and one that solved all the problems encountered at the Point Ephemere: Every sound of every instrument and every voice in the band was crystal clear and no need for ear plugs. The evening was a theme evening of “pinup” girls fashion and the music was provided by the British band called the Puppini Sisters. These three women singers dressed in a kind of 1940s style and sang similar music, like the Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B, etc., with a touch of rockabilly. It was a fabulous show and the sound was great, and this girl band reminded me a little of the 70s band Sha Na Na, but here with a throwback to an even earlier era.

Unfortunately, I did not have my Zoom Q3 and had to use my iPhone for a video, and the sound quality is very bad compared to the Q3.

Yesterday afternoon I also visited the Shakespeare and Company literary festival and heard Philip Pullman speak, and spoke to him myself, giving him a copy of my Colin Wilson book. He said, “Oh, he wrote me what amounted to a fan letter,” said Pullman of Wilson. I said, “I know, he mentions that in the book….”

The Euks go to the Highlander and the Cavern

June 17, 2010
bradspurgeon

I wrote a while ago about the Wednesday night neighboring open mics in Paris, The Highlander and The Cavern. The Cavern is not exactly an open mic in the sense of most I write about here, because the venue provides a live band and the guest just goes up to sing a song with the band.

That last time I wrote about how I chickened out singing at the Cavern, although I’d sung there once before. This time, I did not chicken out, and that was thanks to my sense of pride. You see, I went to both of these open mics with my son, Paul, and his band The Euks, which I also wrote about here in the past. The Euks consists of my son and three of his friends, Antoine, Vincent and Sébastien, and they were looking for a place to play in public with the band for the first time. They knew about the Highlander and I said I’d join them if they didn’t mind. They also brought their friend Calvin, who writes some good songs too and sings solo. So we all went to the Highlander, and The Euks made its debut, and Calvin sung some songs, and I sang some songs, and then we all went off to celebrate at The Cavern.

Now the Cavern usually has some very, very hot singers who get up behind the microphone. In fact, that is the norm, and it’s one thing that bothers me about the place, because although it is called an open vocale jam, and it really is open to anyone, most people are scared shitless to get up and sing because the quality is professional, and very high. Well last night, Calvin and Antoine went up as the first volunteers of the night and sang a French rock song that Calvin said he had never heard before! They both had great fun, and I think the audience did too.

But then up went a fabulous singer who sang a George Benson song with the band, and this guy was your typical pro at The Cavern. Scared the life out of everyone. We had to catch the last Métro anyway, so all got up to leave. But I could not accept that my son’s friends went up on stage and sang at the Cavern and that I would not do the same out of fear and the knowledge that I’m lost at sea when I sing with a band without my guitar in my hands. So I decided to get up and sing “Stand By Me,” which is the only song on the band’s set list that I sing with my own set list.

I did it, and I made a fairly big mess out of it. But at least I did it. And the genial guitarist, Rémi de Coudenhove, agreed with me in advance that it was indeed difficult to sing alone with a band if you’re used to doing it with a guitar in your hands.

But the most important part of the night was that Calvin played some of his songs, including a nice new one, and The Euks had their public debut. It went very well, even considering that they are an electric band and they had to play acoustic and didn’t even have the drum set. They all agreed that it was a good workout.

A Quickie

June 16, 2010
bradspurgeon

Did Ollie’s open mic at the Ptit Bonheur la Chance, that I wrote about a couple of weeks ago. This time, a great night more crowded than I have ever seen it. Some of the same musicians, some new ones. Amongst the new ones was this very cool Japanese guy, so I decided to do a blog item just to mention him. I know nothing about him, not even his name. But you can appreciate his music and style with the video below. Aside from that, Ollie was away last night so Elliott took over the MC job, and he did it well. I did three songs, doing “Jealous Guy,” “Except Her Heart,” and to change things and shake it all up, I did the traditional English song, “High Germany.” A troupe of five or six American actors did some kind of theater piece that I couldn’t follow, and I played right after them. This is just a quickie post. Here’s the Japanese guy:

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