I just got back from a few days in the Czech Republic, opened the door to my terrace and saw that my neighbor had cut down all the trees in his backyard.
This is the second time in as many months that I've been on a four day tour revolving around my move to Dortmund. I'm definitely a creature of habit and routine and it's a bit unsettling to come home to a place that isn't home yet. Which is one reason I love traveling so much. Takes me off autopilot. (Another being that I've traveled so much and for so long that the the constant transience has become part of the routine.) My June accomplice was Little Annie and we had a day off between each of three shows, so the whole expedition felt like it took about four months. This time I was on my own, save for my secret-weapon, Czech super-impressario to show me the way--and the time seemed to compress into one long day and night. As I type the words "show me the way," the image of Peter Frampton--yeah, "coming alive," unwillingly takes shape in front of me. A queazy, meerschaum-like apparition from my musical palimpsest. Makes me shudder, but not necessarily think... (apologies).
Last month I got caught up with the rabbits of Dortmund and neglected to mention anything of the magic of Annie. This time it's the charms of Brno. I'm always up for a new city and this place has always been a somewhat exotic spot of ink on a map for me. It's a strong sounding name--like Bruno, (but not Borat)--and I've known some strong Brunos in my life. (Those tracks etched through my aging brain again...) I don't start in Brno, but actually in Uherske Hradiste--deep in Moravia. I fly to Vienna, where I meet our Botanica bassist, Jason--who happens to be from Philadelphia--at the Philadelphia Restaurant, an old man's bar by the Meidling Train station. Possibly the ugliest and least inviting point of departure in all Europe. The train is half an hour late, so I expect it to be equally late at my destination: Stare Mesto. Old city--the old city of Uherske Hradiste, I'm told. Somehow, though, the mighty engines of our iron horse have made up most of the time and the Stare Mesto sign suddenly appears at my window, the train slowing down in the middle of a field while, half asleep, I unplug my computer and collect all the crap I've thrown around the compartment. I make it off the train just as it starts moving again. A definite victory--the first of the day. (And you should all know by now that A Victory A Day Keeps Suicide Away).
Green is the color of my 24 hours in Uherske Hradiste. The deep, wet green of the grass and the trees; the garden-of-eden green of the festival posters; the green of the "Irish Pub and Hotel" where I stay. And most impressively, the green of the local killer absinthe. The Irish pub looks genuine enough, but features the distinctly un-irish yet delicious garlic and egg soup, which I have for breakfast at 4 PM--about 24 hours after the absinthe. Fortunately, or sadly, depending on how the mood might strike, the exchange of clothing and pissing on the bar didn't involve me, though exactly how I got form the absinthe to the soup is anybody's guess. It's a big stage in front of a small crowd. The looper works. The Omnichord works. The mask works particularly well. It's a veritable glut of victories. As if it weren't enough to get to sing "I'm Your Man" every night, I get to enhance the out-of-body experience for myself as well as the crowd. Plus it's bloody hot behind that painted paper maché. A couple degrees short of suffocation. I ask the promoter who else is playing and he informs me it's a Prague band called "Kill the Dandies." I nod as if I had a fucking clue who they are--this bunch of exceedingly friendly rockers, dandies all. Sonia (from KtD) and I, work it out that there's not more than one degree of rock 'n roll separation between us. She implies that I'm influenced by the Berlin cabaret scene, by which she means Nick Cave et al, though my response to that is cabawhat and where's the scene? In any case, as far as I'm concerned Nick Cave ruined music in Berlin for at least a generation or three by spawning legions of 2nd rate fans, disciples and imitators masquerading as musicians. (This is not a slag at KtD, who definitely are not part of that unfortunate milieu.) And in case anybody's wondering, it's not meant as a slag against Cave either. But before I get into real trouble, it's probably time to move on to Brno. Along the short way, I enjoy the first of three amazing Czech deserts: the apple strudel with all the trimmings.
In Brno, there's another band of sweethearts from Prague to share the stage with: Lealoo. Eva struts some sexy, red stilettos. They also sound like Garbage, by which I mean Butch Vig's band, whose first album I really liked, though when I mention this from the stage it doesn't quite make it in translation and I get a menacing response from clench fisted Eva in the audience. Seems Garbage isn't the most beloved band in this neck of the woods. The rapid expansion of my Czech vocabulary definitely goes over better. Butter is my word of the day: Maszlo. Which I'll never forget, as in "Hey Laszlo, can I have some more Maszlo?" Masso, "meat," rounds out my six word Czech lexicon. you should always know how to say what you don't want or can't have. I have a Moravian honey cake. That, I definitely want.
In Prague, it feels as if I'm once again at the center of the universe. Back in civilization, for better or worse. Thankfully, though it's a typically overrun afternoon on the Charles Bridge, most of the tourists don't venture off the literally beaten path and I find a moment of voluptuous peace by a canal moments away from disco hell. I remember being here in 1986 when touts wearing suits and hats from apparatchik central casting worked the train stations renting rooms for Deutschmarks. It worked on me. 10 marks a night. Make your own breakfast. Yes, the bread in the pantry was dark green with mold. People fished for carp off the bridge. But the stillness of the city transcended the local depression and for someone from the other side, it seemed as if the sound of Mozart's opera premieres were still echoing off the old stones. The statues on the bridge are, for the most part, as black now as they were then. Ultimately gothic--especially with the fat spiders bivouacked on their shoulders, just below the swarming fly halos. Miniature scenes of unparalleled predatory frenzy. I had cinnamon donuts with raspberry sauce, though on the menu it said they were pancakes. The menu also said the anchovies in my salad were soused.
After my walk, I went into one of those buildings from the time before North America had seen a bible and played a show on a sleek Petrof baby grand. I started with Leonard this time. Ended with the Linkous, (Mark), instead. A fat dose of new and old Wallfisch in between. Then it was time to take the Lufthansa back to Dortmund.
In 1996 I joined Tod A's first Firewater incarnation, partly on the strength of a phone conversation where three things were determined: We both loved dogs, Peggy Lee's "Is That All There Is" and Milan Kundera. There's actually a seventh Czech word in my knowledge bank--Litost--from the eponymous chapter in The Book of Laughter and Forgetting. Sitting on my terrace, staring out at where the trees once were, my recent Czech memories begin the process of transforming themselves into the Litost of that aging palimpsest of mine.
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