Old Town School – On The Road
Dispatches from the road from our wayfaring travelers.
Finnish Americana, Part I
The Finns are absolutely wonderful people. Many of them speak English well, most understand it better, and all are incredibly patient and helpful during our tortured attempts to communicate. I feel quite dumb, because I speak only one language and know only two Finnish words: kippis and kiitos. I learned the first word years ago as a toast, thinking it meant nothing more than ‘cheers’ or ‘bottoms up.’ It literally translates as ‘keep peace.’ Kiitos means ‘thank you.’ And if you say kiitos to a Finn after he has made the effort to help you in English, his face will light up. The Finns are a peaceful people.
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The Clayhill Boys do a gospel set at the Lutheran Church (click to enlarge)
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We’ve been hanging out with a bunch who are crazy about American old-time, bluegrass and country music. John and Mark have reported on our opening concert in Juha’s photography studio, and the jam session in the bar on our first night at the Ruotsinpyhtää bluegrass festival. I’m sure the others will weigh in with their take on our main stage set at the festival (we were frozen) and our night time set at the bar (there it was much easier to generate heat). We also did a nice impromptu gospel set in the octagonal shaped Lutheran church that dates back to the 1800s. And we participated in one long jam at the old west rendezvous scheduled in conjunction with the festival.
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DMT jams with the Blue Velvet Band outside the “saloon”(click to enlarge)
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The re-enactors, by the way, fed us with food cooked around their campfires. At the “Indian” camp we feasted on beaver (American beaver were introduced in the Baltic region some years ago when it was thought the European beaver was extinct). At the cowboy camp we were fed a kind of rice and bacon jambalaya that cried out for some spicy andouille sausage.
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(click to enlarge)
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But I digress. After eating we played for another couple of hours, then adjourned into the “saloon” where our “western” hosts continued to ply us with strong homemade beer and even stronger shots of other brown liquids. Plus they entertained us with a mock theater troupe and all manner of tomfoolery.
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The Finns are generally described as a reserved and quiet nation. And that is often true in one-on-one encounters. Collectively, however, Finns are full of spunk and passion. They love to have a good time. At the bar on Friday night, I found it remarkable that even though quite a few men were a bit wobbly after several hours of revelry, they handled it by withdrawing into themselves. There were no bellicose scenes observed, no hostilities expressed. Kippis! (Keep peace!)
Filed under: DMT in Finland, Finland 2009, Notes from Paul by Paul | June 9, 2009 | Comments (0)
Can You Tell Me Which Way is North?
Elovena is a kind of instant breakfast cereal. We’ve been calling it “porridge,” which somehow seems appropriate so long as we are in Finland. Elovena is produced by the Hetki Company and only requires some boiling water and one minute of your time. There is a graphic on the box of a lovely Finnish lass in her peasant dress and bonnet, somewhat reminiscent of the St. Pauli Girl, carrying a bundle of wheat and looking out across the table at me. There are some red things in my Elovena, which resemble bits of dehydrated berries, and I have chopped and loaded on the other half of yesterdays banana and a half an apple.
My throat is better today and my sinus has improved. I feel more rested than at any time I can remember over the last month and that is a good thing. The sun is out and it is warmer. We are scheduled to participate in a concert at the church at noon today, and we are scheduled to entertain in the saloon at the Wild West Village later today, also a kind of church, where familiar images of the American West have somehow taken root and been reborn as a hybrid of culture and stereotype that is somewhat peculiar.
It is a beautiful morning in the town where I am though I am still unsure of its name or where it is located. I have devised an impish little game for the purpose of my own entertainment and it goes like this. I will be walking and encounter another passer by. If our eyes meet I wave. If he or she waves back or acknowledges my gesture, I pause and ask, “Excuse me, can you tell me which way is north?” Sometimes the language barrier is too much. One guy tried to give me money. Most other times the guy will stop and look at the sky and then the tree line and point in this direction or that. I have pulled this ruse successfully perhaps a half-dozen times while here in the village whose-name-I-can’t-pronounce, and standing in front of the restaurant across the street from the lagoon I can now point you north in six different directions.
We are making do in our little duplex. On day one I blew the fuse on my adapter trying to recharge camera batteries, and have bungled many attempts at trying to access the internet with some ethernet rig Wasal has lent us for our stay. I have endured two cold showers before figuring out how to turn on the water heater and made a disaster of trying to operate the Mocha Master, a thing they call a coffee maker here in Finland. I have lost three flat picks and broken one string. The battery in my tuner died in the cold while on stage yesterday afternoon, and then after I put in a new one, the whole thing died during our set in the cold during the pub show last night at the restaurant. I wound up giving it to a boy who was perhaps ten years old. I asked him if he could point in the direction that is north. Without hesitation he pointed to the sky, by far the best answer yet, so I figured he deserved a prize.
Filed under: DMT in Finland, Finland 2009, Notes from Mark by Mark | June 8, 2009 | Comments (0)
accordian to me
got lost yesterday. streets go in all directions here and
as far as i can tell, up is down, unless it´s not, as far as
i can tell.
did our last classes in the morning, went up the road to the
mountains overlooking town just in time for sunset, dazzling,
drenching the whole city of 3 million that i could see all of
almost in one eyefull. the mountains are red from all the iron.
roads are coated wih the red run-off, and every building and
vehicle has a dusty red patina.
we drove down the other side to the tiny town of casa branca,
and when i say down, i mean there were hairpin turns where
we went around and down at a 45 degree angle. and busses
and trucks use this road. i always wonder if there are people
careening off the sides of mountains all over the world every day
but it never makes our news, but, then what does? does
anyone know anything about the minas gerais state of brazil?
everyone here knows about obama.
at the bottom of the hill, as we rolled into the dusty red town square,
we turned a corner and had to slow as a horse and a calf on a rope
were trundling across the stone street. the calf was being pulled by
a young man. other than the simple rural pagentry of this task,
i thought nothing of it until we went around the square, which took all
of 20 seconds, and we spun arounf and the scene had changed.
in the near dark, at the yellow streetlight lit corner, the calf was
lying in the road, unmoving. we went by so fast, and i felt like we
should have stopped and found out what was going on, whether
it was fatigue or tragedy, but it was a day in the life that wasn´t mine.
i have to keep reminding myself that i am so far from home.
on the way back, myself and andrea got ourselves dropped off
on the south end of the city center so we could take our evening
exersize, strolling the hills and stone streets randomly. within one
block, we had found a scoop-your-own, 70 flavor ice cream shop.
so much for fitness, as i scooped random flavors into my cup,
vowing to walk an extra kilometer before we got the bus.
little did i know that it would happen that way, maybe a few more
kilometers even. i thought i had conquered the cities´ confusing grid,
where streets run every direction, and what seems like a
square is suddenly a triangle, and a couple of turns later,
you are wandering aimlessly in what could be any direction.
so eventually, we hit a street that looked familiar to me.
avenue brazil. this would take us to the big square and we´d be
all straight. but it was rue amazonias i was thinking of, and
it became clear after a lot of walking that we were, in fact,
heading the near opposite direction.
it was saturday night, and the bars and cafes were abuzz.
most places are outside, many on the sidewalk, music blaring,
laughter, people really enjoying the sweet night air.
i felt like i needed a cervega, but wasn´t ready to stop
my sweaty parade up and down the hills, and the bars were busy
and noisy.
we kept walking. the road started to curve and i realized
how bad a wrong turn i took. then we heard music.
it was an accordian, at least it sounded like it. at the end of
the long block of noisy bars, was a dingy bar with dilapidated
and scuffed plastic tables, just a few people sitting.
it was the neighborhood dive, and i mean that in the best way
imaginable.
in the doorway were two cowboys; hats, boots, cigarettes
aflame and big bottles of beer on the bar that they were standing near.
they were singing close male harmony in portugese,
guitar and accordian, with soaring and heartwrenching
vocals.
they stood in the doorway, facing each other. we sat at a table
on the sidewalk and got some really cold beer and listened for a
long time. from the dark, they were almost a painting of smoky
shadows, framed by the harsh light on the inside of the bar.
we waltzed to one tune on the rough sidewalk.
they never really took a break. a slender, dark young man
with rasta hair, with had beads woven into it, had a small
shoulder bag with some bamboo flutes. he started
playing with the duo, sometimes on his airy, mournful sounding flute,
sometimes tapping the flute against the beads that were hanging
on his chest. i wanted so bad to have my fiddle and join the band,
but was so content listening and watching, late in the evening
at a bar on the street in the center of town of belo horizonte, brazil.
life kept feeling pretty sweet.
the 2004 bus back to our flats didn´t run too much past midnight, so we had to
start walking again. i twisted the map this way and that, took out
the 3x reading glasses and finally figured out where we were on the map,
and we started on what was maybe the right direction.
we saw a street vendor, selling popcorn, hot powdered chocolate covered
peanuts, and sugar crusted fried coconut chunks. andrea got som popcorn.
the vendor, an older man, kept talking to us in portugese, even though
andrea kept saying “ne parle portugese, ne parle portugese!“. she kept
pointing at the popcorn, trying desperately to communicate what she wanted,
but he kept babbling on, in a very strident way, about something.
finally he scooped a bag of popcorn. she handed him a 50 reija bill.
he handed her back 40 and started talking about who knows what again.
there should have been change, at least 7 reijas, but he kept talking.
then he reached into his cart and got some bags of peanuts and coconut
and shoved them into her hands.
he may have been out of change, or maybe he just liked the feel
of the dough in his hands. whatever was the case, andrea said “okay,
okay“, accepted the goods and we walked away.
we were looking for our bus stop when we saw people walking through
a gate, and we heard music. hell with the bus. we went in, and there
was a small festival going on.
the was an older black man on stage with a guitar, and behind him were
two lines of beaufiful woung people, dressed in white with red trim,
playing big, thumpy, deep drums. he had the crowd worked up.
they were singing and dancing. sang along to everything. at one point
he was singng what sounded like might have been a patriotic anthem,
with the name of the state, minas gerais, repeated over and over, and
the crowd sang and clapped. andrea danced blissfully. i watched
the band and the crowd and felt the deep and powerful bang of
the mallets on the drums.
i guess we´re here on a cultural exchange mission. i hope anyone
we taught learned as much about us as we joyfully learned about them.
the people of this area are lovely and sweet, in every meeting, event and
transaction. having been to two other countries and ours in the last month,
i hesitate to compare, but this has been a wonderful experience, and
everyone we met here was part of it.
beijos
steve
Filed under: Brazil 2009, Notes from Steve, Uncategorized by Steve | June 7, 2009 | Comments (0)
Gigs and saloons and daylight.
Yesterday was the festival….Finnish bluegrass bands and us. These guys all play great and have been as hospitable as can be.
We did a set at 5pm and then another at midnight. The “Roots in Pyhtaa” Festival is in it’s 22nd year…the same weekend every year and they attract about 300 or so people…including cowboys and indians and bikers (no not the Village People).
The evening sets move from the open field to the back porch of the Ravintola Ruukinmylly..the only bar/restaurant in town.
Music on and on till all hours…beer that never stops flowing…some good Finnish brandy…(no vodka..?) open face sandwiches of salmon and cheese.
We walk everywhere, everything is 2 minutes from where we’re staying..
Along with the music festival there’s an “old west” reenactment campsite (we played the church today and we do the saloon tonight)…a Finnish version of cowboys and indians.
The almost never ending daylight is a bit surreal…at 11pm it’s looking like 8:30pm(CDT), by midnight it’s getting dark and by 2am dawn is tapping you on the shoulder….it beckons you to stay up for just one more.
Filed under: DMT in Finland, Finland 2009, Notes from John by John | June 7, 2009 | Comments (1)
Yesterday I Was Baptized
Yesterday I was baptized. I awoke in the late afternoon with a full blown case of jet lag. My throat was scratchy, my sinuses dry and I had the same feeling of congestion in my chest that precedes something like a flu. There was laughter and music coming from Colby and Paul’s apartment across the foyer. First one mandolin then two together. More laughter. One voice was thick with the speaking style common to these northern regions, the other more familiar. Names were being mentioned and I only recognized a few. Someone unschooled in mandolin nobility is left to measure the magnitude of each name by the reverence with which it is spoken.
Wasal Arar and Colby Maddox were jamming and comparing notes collected from two separate lifetimes spent bent over a mandolin in two completely different parts of the world. And to recognize how much they have found in common with one another is something to behold. Some of the same chops and riffs spill out of their instruments. They share some of the same chord voicings and scales, as well as a number of common musical friendships in the swirling world known only to those who pick at the mandolin. Details like string gauges, action, model numbers beginning with an A or an F were discussed and affirmed. Builders like Gibson and Kentuckian and others I have never heard of were addressed.
I made tea in the kitchen of John’s and mine apartment, enjoying the interaction. It is evident that Wasal loves all kinds of music. He is quick to point out some of the many things old-time music and bluegrass have in common. It is remarkable that Wasal has learned to play so well and has amassed so much knowledge considering the essence of his music is rooted a half a world away. He knows instruments too. He knows how they are built and how they ought to be adjusted. And he can articulate the subtle differences in the sound of one mandolin when compared to the next. I gathered then that Wasal has listened to a great many mandolins.
Now let me tell you something else. Sitting in my kitchen sipping tea, I thought I heard lightning sparking from the strings of Colby Maddox. His playing is at once powerful, subtle and rhythmic. His phrasing dances and struts with bluesy, syncopated vigor. Whoa.
I boiled another cup of tea water and listened to the music a while longer, then joined the two in the other apartment. “I am taking you all to the sauna this afternoon,” said Wasal. The word sauna hung in the air. Sow-nah. I guess you could say Colby and I said nothing, as it suddenly became awful quiet. “You’ll enjoy it,” Wasal went on, “It is something you come to Finland to do. All Finns enjoy their sauna.”
Twenty minutes later, the four of us plus Wasal trudged down the gravel road, towels draped over our shoulders, towards sauna. Sow-nah. Wasal explained some of the health giving effects of this age old Finnish tradition as we walked. He was sensitive to the shyness of his American guests, yet eager for us to take part in the experience. I wondered how many American musicians Wasal has coaxed and coached through their first Finnish sauna over the years. Sow-nah.
At once Wasal stopped in mid-speech. “Wait a minute,” he said, “I forgot something. Keep on walking and I’ll catch up with you.” The four of us kept on towards our sauna. John, who has traveled the world playing music, has enjoyed sauna in several different countries. Paul is generally eager to try new things and although this wouldn’t be his first sauna, he was fully looking forward to it. I’m pretty sure Colby and I said nothing, as it again became awful quiet.
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Ruotsinpyhtaa commuity sauna (click to enlarge)
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Wasal came hustling up the road toting a twelve pack carton of Finnish beer. “We’ll need these in the sauna,” he said.
We entered what Wasal called the dressing room, which is an interesting thing to call it, and we began undressing. “You can take your towel in if you like,” said Wasal. “You are all welcome to do what you are comfortable with. But if you take your towel in it will get wet and you won’t have anything to dry yourself off with.”
As we stood, one of the boys handed me an open bottle of beer. I folded my towel and placed it atop my stack of clothing and we exited the dressing room. Across the hall is the doorway to the sauna. As you enter you step past a container about the size of a small trash can. It is filled with what look to be man-made stones which are somehow heated by the container. Two gents, already sweating and pink welcomed us. We stepped up one at a time and the older of the two scootched around the u-shaped bench to make room. The younger one stayed on the end nearest the container and manned the pail. Periodically he splashed a ladleful of water atop the rocks. The water sizzled and evaporated, filling the sauna with heat and moisture.
A Finnish sauna is rather compact and is hotter than a traffic jam in Louisiana in August. Eighty degrees centigrade is a hundred seventy-six in our part of the world and you feel it immediately. Wasal explained something of the philosophy behind sauna. He spoke something in Finnish to the younger man who immediately splashed two more ladles of water on the stones. The water sizzled again and the heat increased. “There is an art to sauna,” Wasal explained. “You have to do things slowly and when you feel it is time, we will step out back to the river.”
Soon enough the time came. Dripping with sweat, we tiptoed out of the sauna down the short hall and tiptoed out of the doorway which led to the river. There we paused for a spell and I ducked back to the dressing room to deposit my empty bottle. I heard Wasal call, “Watch your step and ease in.” By the time I came back out, John, Colby and Paul were already in the water. “Some people like to dive right in,” Wasal said to me, “but try easing in and see how you like it. You may find it easier to back down the ladder into the water.” I turned around facing Wasal and backed down the ladder.
The water was cold but not icy. Steam was coming off my arms and off of Wasal’s shoulders. “Watch your step he said, the ladder is slippery.” I was in about as far as my knees and looked down to make certain my feet were steady on the ladder. I felt Wasal’s hand atop my head. He mumbled, “I hearby baptize you into the river of sauna,” and he pushed. I pushed off the ladder with my legs and fell back laughing into the chilly water. Wasal stepped down the ladder and joined us. “Don’t be in a hurry to get out of the water,” he said. “You’ll know when it’s time.”
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The Kymi River (click to enlarge)
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One carries the heat of the sauna into the river with them. And the heat of the sauna remains when one climbs back up the ladder and out of the water. Colby and John fetched another round of bottles from the dressing room and there we stood, talking and drinking, watching dusk and stillness settle on the lagoon. A seagull screeched from her perch on a rock while her still fuzzy babies paddled in the water below.
Finnish sauna is refreshing, just as Wasal promised, and invigorating. The shyness of disrobing in public is only temporary. Sauna in Finland is as commonplace as cell phones are in Lincoln Square, and one falls into the custom quite naturally. I have felt more naked on countless other occasions while facing an audience fully clothed with guitar in hand and a good set list to boot. Sow-nah.
Colby began to shiver and I began to shiver. The process of heating up in the sauna and cooling off in the river can be repeated as many times as one prefers. Wasal recommended three, so three it was. Paul and Colby stayed for a fourth, while John and I showered, dressed and headed over to the restaurant for dinner. The room was crowded and by the time we arrived, a bluegrass jam had already assembled in the corner. We took the small table by the door and ordered, astonished to find out it was nine thirty. We had spent more than two and a half hours in the sauna.
6 06 09
Filed under: DMT in Finland, Finland 2009, Notes from Mark by Mark | June 7, 2009 | Comments (1)
“legal”…the word for cool in Portuguese
Which is what this place is….so cool! It’s been one full week here in Brazil, I wish we could stay longer! This morning Andrea and I taught part 2 of the folk/pop/rock guitar class. Again, the Brazilians just soak up the American music. One woman Nivea loved all the classic rock of the 70s…calling out sort of obscure groups like Yes and Rennaissance. Even thought most of the students spoke only a little English, they knew a lot of the words of the American songs. We taught Big Yellow Taxi, Paper Moon, California Dreaming and more. Then we headed to the cafeteria/lounge area and rustled up our own barn dance with 10 or so of the students. Bau taught two circle dances and Steve taught one too that I really liked. We hung out with a student named Leandro…a self-taught players…so good…can play many styles…we all loved listening to him play Brazilian music, and he also plays the viola….not like the viola you think….a 7-string, or maybe 5-string?? instrument, nylon…great sound.
Yesterday, Bau and I heard a chorro (spelling?) band….mandos, ukes, that box thing you bang on, flute….so good. They played in a courtyard on the campus. Then we visited the Pro Music school that night for another jam session with all four of us..the students had lots of questions….one was “what is folk music?”….good question!
Okay, backtracking to that morning…..I had a wonderful workshop with the music ed. students of the univ. Somehow I got 25 college students to play freeze dance and sing If you’re happy and you know it and the like! They were great. I talked all about the kids programs at OTS and again, they had tons of interesting questions about how we teach. Then I was interviewed by one of the students for their campus radio station.
The group went up to the mountains today…I stayed back to relax. Tomorrow we will head to Ouro Preto, a town in the mountains about 2 hours away.
Filed under: Brazil 2009, Notes from Laura by Laura | June 6, 2009 | Comments (0)
A Finnish Update
Thursday June 4th 2009
Flew through the non existent night and after transferring in Stockholm finally arrived in Helsinki around 11 am local time.
Hano met us at the airport and we cabbed it to the gallery where we have tonights gig. Our host Juha is tremendous..plying us with coffee and Finnish brandy.
We finally got about 2 hrs of sleep in the venue this afternoon, woke up rehearsed a bit had some more coffee and brandy and in about 30min the show will begin.
A summation of the day to come later:
A beautiful gig…2 sets, about 40 people attending…the transformation from photography studio to concert hall was amazing.
After the gig we packed our bags and took a long taxi ride to Ruotsinpyhtaa and some sleep.
We were met at our hotel ( a 2 unit bed and breakfast) by Wasel Arar. He seems almost singlehandedly responsible for the Bluegrass scene in Finland…a fine banjo player, guitarist and singer.
Friday June 5
We all finally got a good nights sleep. The town we’re in is tiny (even by Finnish standards) and gorgeous and right on a lake.
After a casual day Wasel took us to have a Fin style sauna….sweating in 90 degree C then jumping into the ice cold lake…back to the heat…back to the lake…and repeat….aahhh.
Immediately after we were at the only bar/restaurant in town for an all night jam session.
So many great players here, totally entrenched in the Old Time and Bluegrass syles.
We all had a blast playing song after song with about 10 other musicians…Colby and Paul were especially on fire.
More to follow soon.
JA
Filed under: DMT in Finland, Finland 2009, Notes from John by John | June 6, 2009 | Comments (0)
Somewhere In the World
Somewhere in the world someone is unable to sleep, a long way from home and restless. Somewhere in the world someone is thinking of loved ones, wishing to know what they might be doing at a single given moment; wondering with whom they may be talking, or on what they might be working. Somewhere in the world someone listens through a deep morning quiet, replaying scenes and events which led them to a place and circumstance before now they could not have imagined.
This morning I am all of these and none of these. It is five o’clock and I have popped awake after only four short hours of sleep. The sky is gray, as it has been since we landed in Stockholm. Rain dribbles down, tapping upon shingle and window pane making a kind of music that is somehow familiar, but again unlike the sound of rain against my window in Riverside, Illinois.
Last night, Paul, Colby, John and I played a wonderful concert at Reunenan Gallery, a basement photography studio seven minutes walking distance from Helsinki’s city center. Juha Reunenan is a soft-spoken man and the proprietor. By showtime, he, his son and his daughter Laura, transformed their busy space into a funky elegant concert venue, complete with backdrop, stage lighting and a headless female mannequin torso partially clad in one of Paul’s short sleeved shirts and a black scarf.
Perhaps thirty-five listeners were in attendance and as an audience, they were simply lovely. After the show, Juha ordered sandwiches and a small party began to unfold. Having slept only about ninety minutes apiece since leaving Chicago, we four were exhausted yet jubilant. We played and sang well, remembered all of our parts and weaved together a musically interactive and varied program. We enjoyed each other and were thankful for the gracious hospitality of our hosts and audience.
Before long our gear was loaded into a taxi cab and we piled in. We sped into the damp summer dusk out of Helsinki, towards the village where the main event of our visit is to take place, the Rootsinpyhyaa Bluegrass and Old-Time Music Festival and Rendezvous. A little more than an hour later, the van pulled up a gravel road and stopped in front of an old country house where Wasal Arar waited to welcome us in. Wasal is one of the main movers and shakers who made our visit to Finland possible. He showed us our rooms and showed us how the showers work. Bottles of beer were opened for Wasal, Paul and I, and Colby and John each poured a small glass of a black liquor drink called Salmiakki.
Wasal speaks English well. He is intelligent and articulate and thoughtful. And he knows a whole hell of a lot about American bluegrass music. We are looking forward to jamming with him later tonight, and looking forward to hearing his band perform at the festival tomorrow.
So far on our adventure, we’ve encountered only people who are friendly and generous, eager to make us welcome and comfortable. For a million dollars though, I couldn’t tell you how to find us. The only clue I can offer is we are in Finland, somewhere in the world east of Helsinki. There are trees all around and we are near a river. All is wet and quiet and beautiful.
My cell phone doesn’t work out here, so you can’t call me and I can’t call you. And it will be hours before I can get to a place to make an internet connection. If you do happen to be looking for us, please take your time. We like it here a great deal.
Filed under: DMT in Finland, Finland 2009, Notes from Mark by Mark | June 6, 2009 | Comments (1)
have i mentioned yet how nice eveyone is here in brazil?
and how delightful it is here? and how good the food and weather
are?
let me work backwards from this moment, where i am typing
on a filthy keyboard and barely moving cursor in the hotel
ahem “business office“.
we walked back from the party, myself and andrea, up and down
the hills and darkened and desolate streets. for some reason, no one
at all parks their car on the streets at night. the sidewalks are broken,
ragged and uneven, and if you are wheelchair bound, do not make this
your vacation destination. besides the steep hills and our friend gravity,
there are sheer unexpected dropoffs everywhere. wherever there is a
driveway or corner, there is a steep plunge, a foot or two sometimes,
to the next section of sidewalk. did i say sidewalk? it is almost as if
each building has built its own sidewalk….cement, tile, brick, small stones,
dirt, patterns, crumbling pits, a patchwork.
so it´´s midnight, the streets are
empty and dirty, and we are walking. we actually get a little lost on
the way home, ending up on two spooky quiet streets ´we´´d never seen before.
bats were flying around the streetlights. not a soul driving. all houses
behind iron fences and gates, some yards surrounded by thick clear glass
fences, showcasing the yard like an aquarium, making sure you see but don´t
touch. electric wire or glass on the top. so much security here, neighborhood
stores with guards, malls with 3 or more security guards at each entrance and
more patrolling, in black suits like the secet service.
all that to say; for some reason, it seems not all that scary. any US city and
these streets would be certain death, but here, it seems alright. when we were
lost, on a particularly desolate and dark street of stone, the was a man standing
at the end f the street, in the middle of the T intersection, dark clothing and
sunglasses. andrea said he might have been the bat we saw earlier, but he was
a dark man who said nothing as we walked by with no panic. for some reason.
we were walking from a party and jam at a local music school, where
a local singing legend taught
mostly vocals. we started the evening attending a class in the (i suck at
remembering foreign words) rhythms of an instrument like a tambourine,
and were schooled in patterns for songs and capoera. we stood in a circle
of mostly beautiful and handsome brazilian women. i, resplendant in
my sweaty tank top from walking earlier in the day, may have stood out a little.
but learn we did. i was masterful at it not.
then we went and had a frozen dish made from the acai berry, like a sorbet,
covered with fresh bananas and granola. what a treat, and not the first one of
the day.
then the jam session. in the open air center of the school, which was in a
big old house. we sang a few songs. beer and wine were served. bacon brushetta
was served….toast, cheese, bacon and oregeno. introductions were made.
one of the women there was obviously someone important, a backup singer
with a famous pop star, and as far as i could gather from the conversation,
was on a soap opera. she held herself like a star. if you`ve ever seen the show
“just shoot me“, she was just like nina van horne. regal, self assured.
our hostess sat down with her sister (friend? not sure) and they sang the most
hauntingly beautiful duet ever. so sweet and pure. then another woman and
a guitar joined them for a trio, again, hauntingly sweet and beautiful.
the evening turned raucous, with drums and dancing and exhuberant singing
and laughter. i danced a little, until
i was dripping with sweat (again). it was a kind of magical evening. i wished
i had known any of the words to the songs, but i plucked and sawed and
drummed my way through the evenings brigadoon-like magic.
a delicious bean and sausage soup and some meat struedel were served
and the drinks flowed. another one of those can´t believe i´m here evenings.
the rest of the day earlier seems to pale in comparison, yet it was all kind of
magical. we went to an ecological park. i had the water from a big
green coconut, with a straw, through the hole they punched. it seemed
like a magic drink, neverending. i drank and drank. finally done.
then they split it open, gave it to me with a spoon made from a piece
of the husk, and we peeled out the gelatinous meat from the non scrapy,
non flakey kind of coconut.
on the way out of the park, we stopped at a roadside fruit place, where a man
with a machete carved up giant hunks of sweet juicy pineapple, and we stood
eating, sticky sweet juice flowing and dripping. we left, and in yet another
of many lovely gestures this day, he came running out to the car as we were
leaving, with two big hunks of perfect firm and ripe watermelon, and handed
them to us. not sure watermelon or pineapple ever tasted that fine.
i can´t even get into the wonderful lunch we had, one of many stupendous and
inexpensive meals we had.
but after lunch i took a walk, looking for the grocery store. i climbed hills
and was a big sweaty mess (what else is new) when i asked a woman
on top of a hill where the grocery was. she spoke no english, but understood
what i was looking for and pointed down the street. i thanked her and walked
down the hill. a few moments later i heard a voice, and she was running
down the hill she had just climbed up, just to give me better directions.
she pointed down the hill. “one, two“ then pointed her finger sharply to
the right.
have i mentioned yet how nice eveyone is here in brazil?
and how delightful it is here? and how good the food and weather
are?
by the way, the weather is delightful.
biejos
stefan
Filed under: Brazil 2009, Notes from Steve, Uncategorized by Steve | June 4, 2009 | Comments (1)
Hank Roberts
Hank Roberts is here this week. A more amazing, open, giving musician I have yet to meet. And he’s a cellist so I feel a special connection. I am the only cellist among the participants here at Banff so I feel like I have found a long-lost family member. I’ve never really felt this way before – maybe it’s also being a rock girl around all the jazz musicians – but it sure is great to see him play his instrument and know that only a cello could make those amazing sounds.
He started the class by confessing that he was slightly inimidated by the level of musicianship here – even though he has been playing for more that 40 years and has a strong jazz background.
He talked to us about how we use our bodies when we play – how to breathe and connect to the large muscles in our back and legs to help us make music. About finding and communicating from your center. Playing what you know and not trying to compete or impress – to play from inside yourself and let that be enough.
It was powerful for all of us to hear him talk after 3 incredibly intense weeks where I think we had all been going through our private changes – feeling challenged, intimitated, uplifted, inspired, discouraged – often all in the span of 12 hours. It was incredibly moving to see and hear this accomplished musician present himself in such a vulnerable way.
Then he played for us – some arrangements of Native American tunes he had been given as well as original music he had composed. The last piece he played, I don’t think there was a dry eye in the room. It was that powerful and I’ll never forget it.
To give you an idea of his spirit, I’ve been hoping I could have some time with him – to play him some pieces of mine and just talk to him about being a cellist and a writer. But the faculty’s time is so hard to come by and I hate to impose. I had decided it was okay if it didn’t happen. Then yesterday evening, when I was feeling ready to go home – that I had experience my fill – I passed him by and he called out to me. He said “I think we should get together, us being the only cellists here?”
So tomorrow at five, with one day before I leave, my cello and Hank’s cello are going to have a conversation. I can’t wait to hear what they say…
Filed under: Banff International Workshop 2009, Canada 2009, Notes from Alison by Alison | June 4, 2009 | Comments (2)
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