ON & OFF THE ROAD #12

Frank Zappa--someone I admire--even though, (and I know I'm  generating some serious hate here), he made some of the worst music I've ever heard, famously said that music writing was people who can't write, writing about people who can't speak for people who can't read. After one year of filling this space, readers will know that On & Off the Road is not a music column. But everything has rhythm and lyricism isn't only expressed through melody. I just read Keith Richard's book, "Life," and picked up Patti Smith's tales of discovering Robert Mapplethorpe and New York City, "Just Kids." It turns out that two of the people most responsible for deploying the transformative power of loud, simple music are among the best prose writers on the planet. (Zappa, smart and entertaining as he was in TV interviews defending individual freedoms or praising Varese, was as snide and irrelevant a writer as he was a composer). While Richards' book gives a co-authorship credit to his friend, journalist James Fox, it's pretty clear that Fox didn't have to do much more than hit play on the dictaphone and faithfully transcribe 600 pages of Keith's storytelling. Everyone marvels at Keith's survival. The man survives because he truly loves what he does and is ecstatically aware of the privileged position he's enjoyed--not just since the first million records sold, but since the first day he picked up a guitar. 

Similarly, Patti's book is illuminated with a gratitude and humility worthy of religious devotion, but so rarely evinced by the theistically faithful, encumbered as they are by the weight of morality, guilt and fear of God. The difference between art and entertainment rests on morality served or not. Religious services and stadium events from rock concerts to mass market sports are the epitome of answers offered up and desires pandered to. Presentations of a more confrontational sort, allowing audience and performer alike more room for curiosity, exploration and doubt are what advance the species. The moments of wonder inherent in the virtuoso feats of star athletes and musicians certainly mitigate the glibness of the enormodome experience, but generally by the time the creative fire spreads to Madison Square Garden or Wembley Stadium, it's a gas powered flame no matter how bright it burns.

For Patti Smith in 1968, "the weakness for using the phone booth in the diner was…most problematic…A handful of coins…could mean one less meal." To say nothing of a trip to central New Jersey, then as now, a spiritual world away from New York City, but unimaginably distant as a physical and virtual entity in 1968 compared to the instantaneous concurrence of experience provided by today's miraculously cheap and fast technology. This morning I walked along the Vistula river as the sun came up in Krakow. I got on a Wizz Air flight, (pronounced "Weezer"--I think next time I'll fly Foo Fighter), and got back in Dortmund in time for "Blood Wedding" rehearsal. The Krakow show last night was the first Botanica appearance in Poland and my first time in the country since 1986. Part time Botanican, Miriam Eicher joined us from Vienna. The show's promoter gave us the following low-down on transportation options:  "The roads are terrible. People occasionally die on the busses. On the other hand, the trains are horrible--always breaking down and usually hours late. Even though the busses are dangerous, the chances of dying in a bus accident are still far slimmer than the near certainty that your train will be uncomfortable and late. So take the bus." I figured I'd split the odds for disaster and Miriam took a train to Krakow and a bus going back. The train was exactly one hour late--meaning that she exited the taxi in front of the restaurant where we were meeting--(for the world's best pierogis and a barrel full of Katanka cocktails)--at exactly the same time as the rest of us walked up to the door. As if we'd synchronized our watches on an episode of Get Smart.  Basically, our entire time in Krakow came down to the perfect timing and flow of that first meeting. 

At the Masada Klub the next night, a 1959 Hammond B3 sat on stage, it's varnish a deep and glossy reddish-brown, polished to the point where I could check my hair during the show. Shipped from Fresno, California and lovingly taken apart, cleaned and put back together, this organ and it's accompanying Leslie speaker cabinet is the best sounding and best kept Hammond I've ever seen. It's owner informed us it was the only one in Poland. I don't think there are a dozen like it in the world. The reason this beautiful beast found itself crouching on our stage was because for weeks it seemed as if a Korg CX3 organ was not an object that existed anywhere in the whole country. "No Korgs in poland" became something of a slogan for the promoter. Inquiries were made as far away as Gdansk and Lodz for Korgs--as well Wurlitzers, (eventually represented ably enough by a Nord). Finally, with the help of several bottles of vodka as bribery, a broken instrument case was delivered to the club with what was said to be some kind of organ inside. We snapped off the bungi chords, and miraculously, a vintage Korg CX3 lived inside. Even sporting scratches in exactly the same place as my own. Naturally, though, the B3 would find it's place in the set. Since budgetary considerations didn't allow for the toy piano to fly the WeezAir, Miss Jaymar didn't make the trip, but I ended up trading her in for the Queen of keyboard instruments. There I was sitting--and standing--on that gloriously polished organ bench, surrounded by keyboards. The opening to Truth Fish never sounded so rough, raunchy and just plain fucking huge. Standing center-stage with us Captain Jack, Masada's helmsman, in a French-style, striped sailor shirt and sporting a tall, tapered candle strapped to his head, did our lights by randomly pushing faders up and down and twiddling every button on the panel while dancing through the entire set--eventually stepping on Jason's guitar cable and unplugging his bass. 

Walking around the city reminded me a little of New Orleans before Katrina. Krakow is a town whose residents really love where they live and know they have something special. We weren't aware that May 10th is a national day of mourning in Poland. As it turned out, we were almost certainly the only band performing in the city--if not the entire country on Sunday, a day when art and entertainment aren't really considerations for most Poles. But somehow this worked in our favor and the packed club barely let us leave. 

We ended the night with This Perfect Spot--on the B3--and meant what we sang. 

I don't know if Patti or Keith ever played Krakow--but they definitely had nights like the one we had on Sunday. Or they wouldn't still be around to show us all how it's done.