Operating as a collective, Yid Vicious requires each of its members to share the load. That, or someone somehow got stuck with ALL of the instruments being stored in his/her hotel room. Plus: Fiona rocks!
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Friday, November 27, 2009
Some Final Bit of Ruminating
November 25, 4:50 AM
Leaving Argentina
We’re in the air, probably above the Atlantic Ocean at this point. We’re headed home, back to houses, dwellings, loved-ones, cats and the familiarity of the day-to-day. Will we miss Buenos Aires? Yes, yes, yes; yes we will. BA has all the magical properties of a great city where you feel like anything is possible.
How can you really describe Buenos Aries? I can’t, except to say that it’s an enchanting place that combines old-world elegance with Latin American grit, a place with an incredibly complicated history that we won’t try to begin unraveling here. Each Argentine we’ve met has been extremely kind, open and sincere with an awesome sense of humor. It’s a city for walking, being and hanging around, everything always on a human scale. Everyone had a wonderful time.
Given all this, what to make of the graffiti I noticed on the side of a building during the autobus ride out of town? I took no photo, so I’ll describe it to the best of my ability. It had been made from a stencil. The image contained three elements: an outline of a person as seen from the right side, the person’s arms extended in front; a garbage can beneath where his hands were; and finally, above the garbage can and slightly below the hands as though being dropped into the can, a Star of David. None too subtle.
I noticed this little hate-o-gram, as I say, from the bus. I think I was the only one to see it. We were all laughing, joking, happy that we were all still on speaking terms after three weeks and a whole lot of bus. I didn’t point it out to anyone because I didn’t want to sour their mood like it had mine. I was saddened but not entirely surprised. After all, Argentina, magic land of tangos, parillos and cab drivers with supernatural powers, had given safe haven to a bunch of Nazis after World War Two. And of course there are always plenty of Christians around who can’t get over that whole “Jews killed our Messiah” narrative. And there are always plenty of plain, regular assholes who automatically hate whoever isn’t like them. There are something like thirteen million people living in and around BA. To expect all of them to be nice people would be kind of a stretch.
As much as I loved Buenos Aires, I have to confess to having found it a little exhausting. I spent much of our visit trying to wrap my brain around all the dynamics of history, colonialism, economics, politics and social upheaval that in various ways had formed the Argentine character, if such a thing exists. Since I don’t know a lot about the history of Argentina, my perspective tended to be colored by what little I do know, ie the military dictatorship circa 1976, remnants of which always seemed to pop up out of nowhere and contrast wildly with the bright good times we were having. Once we were standing around chatting on a (mostly) pedestrian street following a (cancelled) concert when an old, old man shuffling by, noticed us, no doubt was immediately aware of our Americanness, and stopped and stood about ten feet away, scowling toward us with the angriest, most evil scowl I’ve ever seen, for what seemed like an hour. As though he had strong personal reasons for hating Americans, which lots of Argentines surely do. Other reminders of the bad times among the enchantment of the city: the big obelisk in the middle of town, not far from our hotel, against which some of the first “dissidents” were stood up and shot when the generals took over; the ubiquitous Ford Falcons, which the Ford Motor Company, one of the corporate beneficiaries of the coup, had supplied to the federal police and which were used, among other things, for rounding up leftists; the Rio de la Plata, into which many of the bodies were dumped. Walking around the city, it was sometimes hard not to think of state-sponsored terror, hard not to wonder how people dealt with it, how they’re still dealing with its aftermath, perhaps dreading its recurrence.
And now the last thing I see before leaving the city is…anti-Semitism. The fact that it was made from a stencil and not just crudely spraypainted makes it seem extra sinister. Maybe there was more than one person involved, the maker of the stencil plus his minions, or maybe there was just one guy and he wanted to make it as fast and easy as possible to spread the most hate over the biggest area. Either way, I begin to realize that I’m dealing with this in a rather naïve and self-centered manner. Argentina is, after all, a country, and one of the unfortunate things about countries is that some of its citizens tend not to get along. Of COURSE there’s darkness in Argentina’s past and present, just like there is in the US, in France, Mexico, Russia, Nigeria, South Africa, India, etc. And, was I more disturbed by the actual hate message or by the fact that it was ruining my good time? Am I really that incredibly spoiled? Probably, but one thing I can say with certainty is: fuck that stencil guy; fuck all those stencil guys. After briefly wondering at the origin of the stencil, I thought about the other people in the van sitting next to me and how incredibly proud I am to be one of them. I remembered all the musicians we’ve met on this trip, all the wonderful, kind people who love playing music and revel in the community it creates, in its positive energy. And I thought: Give it up, Stencil Guy, because you’re not going to win. Our side is better, smarter, more fun, more numerous, swings harder, and by the way, fuck you, Stencil Guy.
And so, Dear Reader, as we say our farewell to the Southern Cone and all it’s magic and madness, my brain continues to spin, not only attempting to unravel the mysteries and complexity of this place, but the make-up of my own character as well. And that’s why we travel.
Leaving Argentina
We’re in the air, probably above the Atlantic Ocean at this point. We’re headed home, back to houses, dwellings, loved-ones, cats and the familiarity of the day-to-day. Will we miss Buenos Aires? Yes, yes, yes; yes we will. BA has all the magical properties of a great city where you feel like anything is possible.
How can you really describe Buenos Aries? I can’t, except to say that it’s an enchanting place that combines old-world elegance with Latin American grit, a place with an incredibly complicated history that we won’t try to begin unraveling here. Each Argentine we’ve met has been extremely kind, open and sincere with an awesome sense of humor. It’s a city for walking, being and hanging around, everything always on a human scale. Everyone had a wonderful time.
Given all this, what to make of the graffiti I noticed on the side of a building during the autobus ride out of town? I took no photo, so I’ll describe it to the best of my ability. It had been made from a stencil. The image contained three elements: an outline of a person as seen from the right side, the person’s arms extended in front; a garbage can beneath where his hands were; and finally, above the garbage can and slightly below the hands as though being dropped into the can, a Star of David. None too subtle.
I noticed this little hate-o-gram, as I say, from the bus. I think I was the only one to see it. We were all laughing, joking, happy that we were all still on speaking terms after three weeks and a whole lot of bus. I didn’t point it out to anyone because I didn’t want to sour their mood like it had mine. I was saddened but not entirely surprised. After all, Argentina, magic land of tangos, parillos and cab drivers with supernatural powers, had given safe haven to a bunch of Nazis after World War Two. And of course there are always plenty of Christians around who can’t get over that whole “Jews killed our Messiah” narrative. And there are always plenty of plain, regular assholes who automatically hate whoever isn’t like them. There are something like thirteen million people living in and around BA. To expect all of them to be nice people would be kind of a stretch.
As much as I loved Buenos Aires, I have to confess to having found it a little exhausting. I spent much of our visit trying to wrap my brain around all the dynamics of history, colonialism, economics, politics and social upheaval that in various ways had formed the Argentine character, if such a thing exists. Since I don’t know a lot about the history of Argentina, my perspective tended to be colored by what little I do know, ie the military dictatorship circa 1976, remnants of which always seemed to pop up out of nowhere and contrast wildly with the bright good times we were having. Once we were standing around chatting on a (mostly) pedestrian street following a (cancelled) concert when an old, old man shuffling by, noticed us, no doubt was immediately aware of our Americanness, and stopped and stood about ten feet away, scowling toward us with the angriest, most evil scowl I’ve ever seen, for what seemed like an hour. As though he had strong personal reasons for hating Americans, which lots of Argentines surely do. Other reminders of the bad times among the enchantment of the city: the big obelisk in the middle of town, not far from our hotel, against which some of the first “dissidents” were stood up and shot when the generals took over; the ubiquitous Ford Falcons, which the Ford Motor Company, one of the corporate beneficiaries of the coup, had supplied to the federal police and which were used, among other things, for rounding up leftists; the Rio de la Plata, into which many of the bodies were dumped. Walking around the city, it was sometimes hard not to think of state-sponsored terror, hard not to wonder how people dealt with it, how they’re still dealing with its aftermath, perhaps dreading its recurrence.
And now the last thing I see before leaving the city is…anti-Semitism. The fact that it was made from a stencil and not just crudely spraypainted makes it seem extra sinister. Maybe there was more than one person involved, the maker of the stencil plus his minions, or maybe there was just one guy and he wanted to make it as fast and easy as possible to spread the most hate over the biggest area. Either way, I begin to realize that I’m dealing with this in a rather naïve and self-centered manner. Argentina is, after all, a country, and one of the unfortunate things about countries is that some of its citizens tend not to get along. Of COURSE there’s darkness in Argentina’s past and present, just like there is in the US, in France, Mexico, Russia, Nigeria, South Africa, India, etc. And, was I more disturbed by the actual hate message or by the fact that it was ruining my good time? Am I really that incredibly spoiled? Probably, but one thing I can say with certainty is: fuck that stencil guy; fuck all those stencil guys. After briefly wondering at the origin of the stencil, I thought about the other people in the van sitting next to me and how incredibly proud I am to be one of them. I remembered all the musicians we’ve met on this trip, all the wonderful, kind people who love playing music and revel in the community it creates, in its positive energy. And I thought: Give it up, Stencil Guy, because you’re not going to win. Our side is better, smarter, more fun, more numerous, swings harder, and by the way, fuck you, Stencil Guy.
And so, Dear Reader, as we say our farewell to the Southern Cone and all it’s magic and madness, my brain continues to spin, not only attempting to unravel the mysteries and complexity of this place, but the make-up of my own character as well. And that’s why we travel.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Guest Blogger: Anna Purnell
THE LEAGUE OF SKETCHY WELDING AND OTHER ARGENTINIAN DELIGHTS
Hello all,
Before I commence with this last post from Buenos Aires, I want to make clear how very, very much I love and revere not just this city and the portenos, but the whole country. Even the grinding ache of missing my kids (who were having a great time with their dad and his wife), could not make a dent in complete and utter adoration I have for this place.
Being here has led me many times to reflect upon how we do things in the U.S., and how bizarre and hilarious they must appear to people from other countries. It's also led me to engage in a protracted and vigorous effort to not bring shame upon myself and my friends through dissolving into hysterical laughter at some of the things that are uniquely Argentine. Case in point: The League of Sketchy Welding.
Argentinians love their country. They are proud of it. They go out of their way to assist foreigners in finding their way to the things that are most beautiful, tasty, interesting, historic and delightful here.
At the same time, they are also really happy to trash up wherever they are like a heavy metal band in a Motel 6 honeymoon suite. Garbage? Throw it on the ground. Dog detritus? For heaven's sake, don't pick it up. Broken glass? Oh well, everything comes to an end. And so on. This is particularly evident in Buenos Aires, but it's kind of the norm in the other cities we visited too. Eventually, somebody comes along and picks up some of the trash, but there will still be car-sized, random piles of what looks like the innards of an entire apartment, or the closeout sale from a box factory.
This “Why Not” sort of approach to civic cleanliness reaches its acme in what appears –at least to somebody from the U.S.- to be Argentinians' extremely cavalier attitude towards personal safety. As I write this, I gaze upwards from the hotel's trashed and lovely courtyard into a thicket of randomly strung electrical wires (see picture above). Are some of these tangled filaments live? Who knows? Will we be electrocuted? Why not?
My very favorite manifestation of this attitude involves people welding things on city streets. Every day, literally, I encountered teams of two or three guys (never women) welding something to something. Usually one or more of them were teetering on a ladder or crouched in the middle of a pedestrian walkway.
Always, the welding device was attached to a power source via an intricate network of aging extension cords, all of which would be made whole by generous swaths of frayed duct tape. Sparks shower down on passersby and up into the face of the welder (who, of course, would bring shame upon himself if he wore a welder's mask or protective garments). Generally, he's also smoking a cigarette and carrying on a conversation while he's bent to his task.
Hello all,
Before I commence with this last post from Buenos Aires, I want to make clear how very, very much I love and revere not just this city and the portenos, but the whole country. Even the grinding ache of missing my kids (who were having a great time with their dad and his wife), could not make a dent in complete and utter adoration I have for this place.
Being here has led me many times to reflect upon how we do things in the U.S., and how bizarre and hilarious they must appear to people from other countries. It's also led me to engage in a protracted and vigorous effort to not bring shame upon myself and my friends through dissolving into hysterical laughter at some of the things that are uniquely Argentine. Case in point: The League of Sketchy Welding.
Argentinians love their country. They are proud of it. They go out of their way to assist foreigners in finding their way to the things that are most beautiful, tasty, interesting, historic and delightful here.
At the same time, they are also really happy to trash up wherever they are like a heavy metal band in a Motel 6 honeymoon suite. Garbage? Throw it on the ground. Dog detritus? For heaven's sake, don't pick it up. Broken glass? Oh well, everything comes to an end. And so on. This is particularly evident in Buenos Aires, but it's kind of the norm in the other cities we visited too. Eventually, somebody comes along and picks up some of the trash, but there will still be car-sized, random piles of what looks like the innards of an entire apartment, or the closeout sale from a box factory.
This “Why Not” sort of approach to civic cleanliness reaches its acme in what appears –at least to somebody from the U.S.- to be Argentinians' extremely cavalier attitude towards personal safety. As I write this, I gaze upwards from the hotel's trashed and lovely courtyard into a thicket of randomly strung electrical wires (see picture above). Are some of these tangled filaments live? Who knows? Will we be electrocuted? Why not?
My very favorite manifestation of this attitude involves people welding things on city streets. Every day, literally, I encountered teams of two or three guys (never women) welding something to something. Usually one or more of them were teetering on a ladder or crouched in the middle of a pedestrian walkway.
Always, the welding device was attached to a power source via an intricate network of aging extension cords, all of which would be made whole by generous swaths of frayed duct tape. Sparks shower down on passersby and up into the face of the welder (who, of course, would bring shame upon himself if he wore a welder's mask or protective garments). Generally, he's also smoking a cigarette and carrying on a conversation while he's bent to his task.
In honor of this group of hardy souls I created The League of Sketchy Welding, and started awarding myself points every time I spotted a member of this august group. I got extra credit if one of a given welding team was blind or asleep, or if the rickety ladder was leaned against an electrical wire. My husband notes that I needed to also award credit for the guy chopping up a small tree, not with a chainsaw, but with a metal grinder. Why not?
Other highlights:
Fun With Explosives
The Argentinians' commendable gusto involving civic participation takes a bit of getting used to. Strikes and demonstrations are frequent and par for the course. Natives and seasoned travelers greet these outbursts of communal expression with a roll of the eyes and a shrug, or by joining whatever throng is making a ruckus. A visitor like myself, on the other hand is constantly studying other people's faces to make sure that the shouting crowd dujour is not about to turn into a murderous mob hell-bent on mayhem. If everybody else looks bored or is applauding or taking pictures (something Argentinians love to do), you figure it's o.k. It was never not o.k.My favorite manifestacion was the one we were drawn into during our stay in Cordoba. It all began when I was partaking in the free breakfast at the King David Hotel. There was a huge, percussive BANG outside the hotel, that startled me so much I half rose from my chair and said, in English, “What the hell was that?” The nice lady at the next table, who has relatives in New Jersey, reassured me. “It's just a demonstration,” she said in Spanish. “They're shooting off fireworks.” It was day light, so I hardly saw the point of that, but imagined they had just shot the one off from the top of a safe building to get the party started.In fact, when my husband and I went out about 20 minutes later, it emerged that they were simply shooting the damn things off IN THE STREET while the parade of disgruntled union workers banged drums, shouted and used a gigantic Argentinian flag as a kind of parachute to fling thousands of leaflets into the air to flutter like blossoms onto the streets. Every time a volley of fireworks would go off, the stray dogs in attendance would yap their displeasure. A man declaimed sonorously and unintelligibly from a PA system mounted on top of a mini-bus. More fireworks. The PA played stirring music. Everybody sang a lovely song.To this day, I have only the vague impression that they were demonstrating for better wages and working conditions. At the time, I was so moved I had tears in my eyes. I wanted to grab a banner and march, to learn the words to the song. In a way, I guess, I kind of did.
Ordering Food
For the first week, no matter what I tried to order for breakfast, I ended up with a ham and cheese sandwich on toasted white bread with the crusts cut off. Finally, I found “omelettes” on the menu and ordered one. It arrived, looking every inch the U.S. omelet. Then I cut into it, and uncooked egg whites and yolks gushed forth. My husband pretended we'd gotten a call and had to take the “food” para llevar (to go). Turns out there are two styles of eggs popular here, “crudo” (raw) and “cocido” (cooked). Most people prefer 'em crudo. Myself, however, not so much.
Bathrooms
Every bathroom is completely different from the next. Strike that: every STALL is its own entity, distinct from any other stall anywhere in the country. On a bus trip through the Andes, we stopped at a place where you had to pick between the stall that had light but no toilet seat, or the one that had the toilet seat and was dark as the inside of a locked suitcase. Oh yeah, and bring your own toilet paper just to be safe, and some change. Some places simply didn't have t.p. Buena suerte. (Good luck.) Others had it, but you needed to make a donation in order to have access to it. In still others, there was good old absorbent, familiar, paper product.
The “Nonkin”
And speaking of paper products, none of us were able to unravel The Mystery of The Nonkin. A nonkin is what passes for a table napkin in Argentina. At first glance, it looks like any other of its ilk, if a bit smaller, about the size of your average drink coaster folded daintily in half. Alas, if you're an American and have the misfortune to actually need a napkin in Argentina, you then come face to face with The Mystery of The Nonkin. Nonkins feel like the wax paper Americans use to pick up doughnuts, they crinkle, and have the absorbent properties of, say, steel or rubber. You cannot clean up a spill with a nonkin. You can, however, contain whatever mess has been made by building a barrier of crumpled nonkins around the liquid and waiting for it to dry on its own.
Dogs and Cats
My husband doesn't know this, but prior to coming here, it was my settled intention to acquire a very small dog upon our return. Since our sojourn in Argentina, however, I've realized there are enough dogs in the world and I don't need to encourage people to produce more. Ownerless (vs. feral) dogs and cats are everywhere in the cities we visited. They're friendly and used to people, and they're also accomplished shmoozers. I never got up enough gumption to actually touch one of the dogs. As an aggregate, they are a testimony to the wonders of the genetic crapshoot, and they tend to be filthy and sort of moth eaten. However, one night in Mendoza, I bonded with a small, yellowish dog that I surmised was the result of one night's torrid passion between a pomeranian and a basset hound. We made eye contact. I slipped him some gristle from my steak and half an egg I didn't want. He lay at my feet for a few minutes, not begging or even looking at me. Then he moved on. Wish I could have taken him home. THAT was a good dog.I have so much more to tell, but I'll stop. It's a lovely day. We only have about an hour before the taxi comes. There are guys in the high rise next door flying paper airplanes from the fifteenth story fire escape.
Why not?
Anna
Dogs and Cats
My husband doesn't know this, but prior to coming here, it was my settled intention to acquire a very small dog upon our return. Since our sojourn in Argentina, however, I've realized there are enough dogs in the world and I don't need to encourage people to produce more. Ownerless (vs. feral) dogs and cats are everywhere in the cities we visited. They're friendly and used to people, and they're also accomplished shmoozers. I never got up enough gumption to actually touch one of the dogs. As an aggregate, they are a testimony to the wonders of the genetic crapshoot, and they tend to be filthy and sort of moth eaten. However, one night in Mendoza, I bonded with a small, yellowish dog that I surmised was the result of one night's torrid passion between a pomeranian and a basset hound. We made eye contact. I slipped him some gristle from my steak and half an egg I didn't want. He lay at my feet for a few minutes, not begging or even looking at me. Then he moved on. Wish I could have taken him home. THAT was a good dog.I have so much more to tell, but I'll stop. It's a lovely day. We only have about an hour before the taxi comes. There are guys in the high rise next door flying paper airplanes from the fifteenth story fire escape.
Why not?
Anna
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Video: Klez/Chor Smackdown
There was also an international Choral festival happening in Mendoza while we were there. Sometimes we ended up at the same restaurant.
Video: Mendoza Parque Central
Mairead & Fiona make their international debut with Mames Babegenush. We'll have to keep an eye on the girls today, lest they try to stow away in the Mames' luggage.
A random note about this venue: the park is huge, and a trip to the bathroom requires a long walk from the amphitheatre, past roughly half a mile of playground. At 8 pm, this area was largely vacant. After the concert, at 12:30 am, the playground was teeming with hundreds of families with toddlers & young children, picnicking and playing. The scene was like Vilas Park on a Sunday afternoon, minus the sun.
A random note about this venue: the park is huge, and a trip to the bathroom requires a long walk from the amphitheatre, past roughly half a mile of playground. At 8 pm, this area was largely vacant. After the concert, at 12:30 am, the playground was teeming with hundreds of families with toddlers & young children, picnicking and playing. The scene was like Vilas Park on a Sunday afternoon, minus the sun.
Leaving Mendoza
November 23, 12:47 PM
Instead of scoring the nice bus (see two entries back) for the trip back to Buenos Aires and ultimately home, the organizers decided to go with Stops Every Thirty Yards For Long Periods of Time Autobus Company. We’re currently in the midst of a crowded, boring sixteen hour deathmarch. What can you do on a sixteen hour bus ride? Some of us have reading material, but some of us can’t read in vehicles thanks to motion sickness. Still others of us are just too godawfully tired to concentrate, having woken up at five AM after being out until about one. Some of us sleep, while others of us just sit and wait for that numb bus stupor to take hold, with all the wall-eyed staring out the window at a landscape that largely resembles Ohio once you get east of the Sierras. Stale, re-circulated air and trainloads of boredom: that’s our life today, all the long, long horrible day.
At least Mendoza was fun. Surprisingly, none of our three concerts got cancelled and we played every night we were there. The first two were in Mendoza’s Central Park in what amounted to a natural amphitheater, and the third was in an unnatural indoor theater. Both turned out to be very nice venues. We continued alternating our sets with those of the Danes. We also got to know them a little during the interminable waiting around. These Danes fall roughly into two categories: younger and older. The younger ones are a six piece outfit called Mames Babaganoush, mostly acoustic but also somewhat rock-oriented. Their names are Christian, Christian but goes by Bo, Andreas, Emil, Nikolai and Lukas, Bo’s brother. They’re almost all in their twenties, mostly thin and tall and with a penchant for the skinny ties. For these reasons, plus the fact that two of them are brothers, they remind me of The Lounge Lizards.
The elder Danes, Ann Magrit and Henrik, are the Klezmer Duo. Henrik is very soft-spoken but seems warm and Ann Magrit is very outgoing and enthusiastic. Between them they play accordion, vocals, soprano sax and hammer dulcimer (not cymbalon).
(Meanwhile, our driver has been turning the air-conditioning on and off at random intervals. I’ve read about this as a torture technique: you introduce unpredictability and a chaotic lack of routine in order to disorient your captive, thereby speeding along the process of breaking him and getting your information. Our CIA has trained these Argentine bus drivers well. )
The Klezmer Duo does all traditional acoustic music and provides a good counterpoint to what the young Danes and Yid Vicious do.
(Oh look, we’re stopping again!)
(Oh, and someone just noticed that the AC on this bus is leaking, just like on the first bus!)
They’re all witty and fun to be around (the Danes) and speak better English than everyone in our dumb country. Ever since I saw Hamlet, I’ve assumed that people from Denmark are gloomy, morose, Oedipal, and suicidal. I don’t know these Danes THAT well, but I’m guessing they’re not carrying that much baggage. Themost stereotypically Scandinavian tendency of theirs that I’ve observed is their clean playing, as clean and smooth as their scrubbed Nordic faces. This again provides a good counterpoint to Yid Vicious, who, as the kids were saying twenty years ago, “keeps it reals”.
(We’re making another stop. So far all the bus stations in the towns we’ve stopped in have been way way off the highway, which means more slow driving and the wheels of time grinding to an excruciating halt before we’ve even actually stopped. This stop turns out to be for twenty minutes. WE GET TO GET OFF THE BUS, or the “suckbus”, as we’ve been calling it. We’ll hang around in the bus station for a few minutes, buy some chips and beverages, try and breathe some oxygenated air, check out the bathrooms (the bathroom on the bus, by the way, isn’t too bad; it’s a little like an airplane bathroom), stand around next to the bus, finally decide we might as well just get back on the damn bus, world without end.)
The whole “clean playing” issue brings up an aspect of this particular festival that some of us at The Vicious Traveler find compelling. Domestic Yid Vicious has had several discussions over the years vis a vis the stylistic characteristics of klezmer. We’ve been told on several occasions that we play too “clean”, too precise, that we should “dirty up” our playing to, once again, keep it reals. How hard do we want to work to replicate the traditional styles? CAN we replicate the traditional style, and if so why should we? If you’ve spent your whole life learning to play with precision and then you one day make a conscious decision to unlearn what you’ve learned, isn’t it just an ingenuous grab at achieving someone’s (almost never YOUR) idea of authenticity?
(During the twenty minute or so break, Suckbus has gotten a little steamy. Members of the TVT team passed a few minutes sweating and discussing past long bus trips. One of us once took thirty hours getting from Boston to Wisconsin via the Greyhound. Others of us spent a sweltering fourteen hours at a stretch riding around Southern Asia. Every traveler has his stories.)
We’ve had some contact over the last couple of years with several of the East Coast KlezKamp people. The KlezKamp krowd are the most influential proponents of Yiddish music in the US today, maybe in the world. A couple of them are world-class musicians, a few of them influential stylists, one or two of them strident polemicists. They’re a fairly diverse lot, but they largely adhere to the principal of folk music as a marker of cultural identity and the preservation of that identity. What this boils down to in practice is that the folk musician, in this case the klezmer, can’t just play the music any way she feels like it. Like classical music, klezmer was set down by the masters for posterity and to not emulate the masters as exactingly as possible means that you’re disrespecting the tradition and trucking in charlatanry of the worst kind.
To my knowledge, nobody has ever openly accused Yid Vicious of being charlatans. We HAVE been told (BTW, did you know that central Argentina is very very flat? Like Bonneville Salt Flats flat, but with vegetation.) by some of the afore-mentioned KlezKamp people that we’re too clean. We have tons of respect for the musicianship and judgement of these particular KlezKamp people, but some among us marveled at the ramifications of this verdict. Here we were, about ten highly trained musicians, discussing style and the manner in which stylistic purity can be achieved, which largely entails adhering to the given style faithfully without the blandishment of your past training.
But how do you unlearn what you’ve worked so hard to learn? Isn’t that a kind of affectation? Like earlier, when we pointed out how reals Yid Vicious prefers to keeps it? And if you can’t add what you know to a given genre, doesn’t that just mean that that genre is sterile and pretty much dead?
Instead of scoring the nice bus (see two entries back) for the trip back to Buenos Aires and ultimately home, the organizers decided to go with Stops Every Thirty Yards For Long Periods of Time Autobus Company. We’re currently in the midst of a crowded, boring sixteen hour deathmarch. What can you do on a sixteen hour bus ride? Some of us have reading material, but some of us can’t read in vehicles thanks to motion sickness. Still others of us are just too godawfully tired to concentrate, having woken up at five AM after being out until about one. Some of us sleep, while others of us just sit and wait for that numb bus stupor to take hold, with all the wall-eyed staring out the window at a landscape that largely resembles Ohio once you get east of the Sierras. Stale, re-circulated air and trainloads of boredom: that’s our life today, all the long, long horrible day.
At least Mendoza was fun. Surprisingly, none of our three concerts got cancelled and we played every night we were there. The first two were in Mendoza’s Central Park in what amounted to a natural amphitheater, and the third was in an unnatural indoor theater. Both turned out to be very nice venues. We continued alternating our sets with those of the Danes. We also got to know them a little during the interminable waiting around. These Danes fall roughly into two categories: younger and older. The younger ones are a six piece outfit called Mames Babaganoush, mostly acoustic but also somewhat rock-oriented. Their names are Christian, Christian but goes by Bo, Andreas, Emil, Nikolai and Lukas, Bo’s brother. They’re almost all in their twenties, mostly thin and tall and with a penchant for the skinny ties. For these reasons, plus the fact that two of them are brothers, they remind me of The Lounge Lizards.
The elder Danes, Ann Magrit and Henrik, are the Klezmer Duo. Henrik is very soft-spoken but seems warm and Ann Magrit is very outgoing and enthusiastic. Between them they play accordion, vocals, soprano sax and hammer dulcimer (not cymbalon).
(Meanwhile, our driver has been turning the air-conditioning on and off at random intervals. I’ve read about this as a torture technique: you introduce unpredictability and a chaotic lack of routine in order to disorient your captive, thereby speeding along the process of breaking him and getting your information. Our CIA has trained these Argentine bus drivers well. )
The Klezmer Duo does all traditional acoustic music and provides a good counterpoint to what the young Danes and Yid Vicious do.
(Oh look, we’re stopping again!)
(Oh, and someone just noticed that the AC on this bus is leaking, just like on the first bus!)
They’re all witty and fun to be around (the Danes) and speak better English than everyone in our dumb country. Ever since I saw Hamlet, I’ve assumed that people from Denmark are gloomy, morose, Oedipal, and suicidal. I don’t know these Danes THAT well, but I’m guessing they’re not carrying that much baggage. Themost stereotypically Scandinavian tendency of theirs that I’ve observed is their clean playing, as clean and smooth as their scrubbed Nordic faces. This again provides a good counterpoint to Yid Vicious, who, as the kids were saying twenty years ago, “keeps it reals”.
(We’re making another stop. So far all the bus stations in the towns we’ve stopped in have been way way off the highway, which means more slow driving and the wheels of time grinding to an excruciating halt before we’ve even actually stopped. This stop turns out to be for twenty minutes. WE GET TO GET OFF THE BUS, or the “suckbus”, as we’ve been calling it. We’ll hang around in the bus station for a few minutes, buy some chips and beverages, try and breathe some oxygenated air, check out the bathrooms (the bathroom on the bus, by the way, isn’t too bad; it’s a little like an airplane bathroom), stand around next to the bus, finally decide we might as well just get back on the damn bus, world without end.)
The whole “clean playing” issue brings up an aspect of this particular festival that some of us at The Vicious Traveler find compelling. Domestic Yid Vicious has had several discussions over the years vis a vis the stylistic characteristics of klezmer. We’ve been told on several occasions that we play too “clean”, too precise, that we should “dirty up” our playing to, once again, keep it reals. How hard do we want to work to replicate the traditional styles? CAN we replicate the traditional style, and if so why should we? If you’ve spent your whole life learning to play with precision and then you one day make a conscious decision to unlearn what you’ve learned, isn’t it just an ingenuous grab at achieving someone’s (almost never YOUR) idea of authenticity?
(During the twenty minute or so break, Suckbus has gotten a little steamy. Members of the TVT team passed a few minutes sweating and discussing past long bus trips. One of us once took thirty hours getting from Boston to Wisconsin via the Greyhound. Others of us spent a sweltering fourteen hours at a stretch riding around Southern Asia. Every traveler has his stories.)
We’ve had some contact over the last couple of years with several of the East Coast KlezKamp people. The KlezKamp krowd are the most influential proponents of Yiddish music in the US today, maybe in the world. A couple of them are world-class musicians, a few of them influential stylists, one or two of them strident polemicists. They’re a fairly diverse lot, but they largely adhere to the principal of folk music as a marker of cultural identity and the preservation of that identity. What this boils down to in practice is that the folk musician, in this case the klezmer, can’t just play the music any way she feels like it. Like classical music, klezmer was set down by the masters for posterity and to not emulate the masters as exactingly as possible means that you’re disrespecting the tradition and trucking in charlatanry of the worst kind.
To my knowledge, nobody has ever openly accused Yid Vicious of being charlatans. We HAVE been told (BTW, did you know that central Argentina is very very flat? Like Bonneville Salt Flats flat, but with vegetation.) by some of the afore-mentioned KlezKamp people that we’re too clean. We have tons of respect for the musicianship and judgement of these particular KlezKamp people, but some among us marveled at the ramifications of this verdict. Here we were, about ten highly trained musicians, discussing style and the manner in which stylistic purity can be achieved, which largely entails adhering to the given style faithfully without the blandishment of your past training.
But how do you unlearn what you’ve worked so hard to learn? Isn’t that a kind of affectation? Like earlier, when we pointed out how reals Yid Vicious prefers to keeps it? And if you can’t add what you know to a given genre, doesn’t that just mean that that genre is sterile and pretty much dead?
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Video Post: Canal Siete Mendoza
The bus ride is over! Now we will proceed to the Mendoza radio station for a promotional appearance of some sort. Let's see what happens!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
