March 15, 2008
Two days in the life.......
Time 06:00 gmt +1
time since leaving home : 1 hr
It starts badly. I take the 6.05 train from Rennes to Paris CDG. It’s 5.55am. I just drove from home. Didn’t stop for coffee. Those of you aquainted with country living will like that one. Arrived at La Gare. Bought my ticket. Bugger me, it’s expensive. One way. Last minute. Make a valued decision to go in 2nd classe. I probably belong there. Mercifully 2nd class is empty. Not a person in my coach, which is quite lucky as I have a free seat assignment.
No one else.
46 seats.
All to myself.
I stow my things and doze off. Keira Knightley nuzzles up to me. Audrey Tautou is on my lap. A choir of angels provides the soundtrack.
zzzz
"Pardon, C'est mon siege.."
Well of course it would be, arse face, I think while, moving all my things to an adjacent seat and saying ‘Oh, Pardon, Pardon’.
6am, no coffee and 45 free seats and I have this complete git moving me after I was getting nuzzled. In the new world order that I’m starting to plan, starting to plan I must stress, since deciding to entertain folks in far off places for the price of a train ticket, people like this, won’t be eliminated, just forced to take trains with likeminded assholes so that the rest of us can safely get on public transport without having to commit a mortal sin. On the other hand, Harry Lime had a point.
What ever
Time 09:30 gmt +1
time since leaving home : 4 hrs 30mins
I arrive at CDG at 9am for a 4.50pm flight to New York and then on to Lima at about 11pm local time. As must seem evident I’m a tad early. No other train could have got me to the airport on time. But that’s cool, I can go into Paris for the afternoon.
Or Not.
I thought there as a chance of an earlier flight but sadly (strangely) there wasn’t one. But they did seem rather happy to check me in so early and I watched my bags disappear down the ramp as they seem to do from time to time in this weblog. Um, OK, they’re checked to NYC. As events unfold, slowly throughout the day, the chances of them arriving anywhere where I need them (and trust me, after a day or two I need them..) become remote and the chances of them being sold from the back of a truck in Belleville seem more likely.
So they checked me in.
Later. Much, much fucking later, I was told that they should have told me of a delay but they didn’t because they were all high on crack, or fucked up from the excess of the night before or just retarded. Whichever way, they all worked for AMERICAN AIRLINES.
Take note Luis. There’s a theme here. FYI Luis, the young gentleman from Lima who arranged my flight, knowing that when life is beautiful I have nothing to write about, booked me on this route. I guess he knew that I wouldn’t be able to deal with the banality of a direct flight which gets there on time, with luggage arriving intact or, hey, maybe even a fee upgrade. . One thing is for certain though. The conquistadors probably didn’t use American Airlines when they defeated the Incas. They’d have been late.
Time 17:00 gmt +1
time since leaving home: 12 hrs
Apparently the flight is delayed. I’m at the gate, have been since the afternoon. Nada. Rien. Personne.
On the TV monitor it has said ‘delayed’ for the last few hours but there is no agent at the gate. At about 8pm an agent comes and when I suggest that I may have a problem catching my connection out of NYC tonight, I’m answered with, ‘Well you were told at check in sir.’ ‘Was I shite’, I duly reply, realizing that this would not improve my chances of getting anywhere tonight. Apparently because I’d checked in early they hadn’t told me, nor given me the vouchers for a free lunch and dinner as they had everyone else. Anyway, the flight was to be about 5 hrs late because of ‘weather’. There was me thinking that planes flew in weather every day, but apparently not this kind.
Time 21:30 gmt +1
time since leaving home: 17 hrs 30mins
Hey, we’re being boarded. The weather must be the right kind of weather now. It’s dark, though. The flight will now get me to JFK at midnight local time but, not to worry as an agent will meet me at the plane and give me hotel, food and transportation vouchers. I’ll have missed my connection to Lima but have been re-routed through Miami tomorrow. It’s a long flight. I sleep a little. Sleeping on the train was more fun. I don’t want to hear choirs of angels up here, thank you.
Time 01:30 est
time since leaving home: 25hrs 30mins.
I arrive at JFK, Terminal 4. It takes forever to clear immigration. I don't even want to as I'm in transit but I have to go through with it all the same.
“Excuse me, where can I find the American Airlines agent?
Ah, there’s not one, um, OK. In that case, where can I find anyone who can help me?
Terminal 8, OK, yes, Take the skytrain, yup OK
I’m sorry, what did you say? It sounded like you said the terminal is closed until 3am.
Ah, OK, so I have to wait then… right, right, um OK.”
That’s the trouble with those small regional airports, huh?
Time 03.01 est
time since leaving home: 27hrs 01min
So those nice people at American Airlines give me a voucher for a hotel and tell me where I can jump on the shuttle bus. Of course the shuttle bus service starts at 4am. It’s really cold now. I'm starting to feel really unwell.I keep thinking of words that my friend Mark said to me in Italy a couple of weeks ago. “Allow it to be different."
Time 04.15 est
time since leaving home: 28hrs 15mins.
I arrive at hotel and ask for a wake up call for 8am. Go to bed.
Time 09.15 est
time since leaving home: 33hrs
Wake up, shower, feel much better, drink coffee, go back to terminal 8, check my bag and am given a $5 voucher for food. I buy 4 espressos, line them up and knock them dead. Life is beautiful once more. That’s what I was thinking as I worked out that I wasn’t even half way to my destination yet. I "allowed it to be different."
Time 11.40 est
time since leaving home: 35hrs 40mins
Take off on another American Airlines, to Miami his time. I work out that American are the only airline capable of making Air Canada look good. I arrive in Miami, looking forward to a quick lunch only to find myself taking the next flight from the same satellite and therfore, without leaving the terminal and waiting for god knows how long in line at security to come in again once more, I’m given the choice of starbucks or pizza hut for lunch. I pass. I read every magazine at the news stand, play all my favourite mental games, you know like, ‘what’s his name and profession?’ and ‘what does she look like naked?’ and the like. I’m bored, my laptop battery is low and I want to keep a little for the plane. The plane arrives. Once more I get on board. Oh Joy.
Time 17.50 est
time since leaving home: 39hrs 10mins
‘American Airlines are sorry to announce…..’ well you know the rest, really, don’t you? Delayed an hour and a half. Apparently the plane is overweight. Some people may have to get off. I feel a couple of hundred eyes staring at me, which seemed to say, "if he get's off no one else will have to". I ain't budgin'. We eventually take off at 7.30pm It’s a 6hr flight so I sleep a bit, arrive in Lima at midnight local time then am horrified to see maybe 600 passengers in line before me for immigration, with only 6 of a possible 16 agents working. Get's more and more like France here every day. I wait in line an hour and a half. Welcome to Peru. I’m met by Guillermo, who I remember from last time, go to the hotel, only to find the restaurant closed and sit quietly writing this little aide memoire.
Time 2am gmt-5
time since leaving home: 49hrs 10mins
Going to bed now. Many negative thoughts running around my head. Perhaps a little moment of doubt on my part but, hey, it’s OK, I’ll allow it to be different.
Posted by robin at 12:10 PM | Comments (7)
March 7, 2008
Down Mexico Way...
Hola Amigos. OK, where did I leave you? Oh, yes I was in Mexico City with a strangely familiar absence of my luggage, no pants or toothbrush, and a healthy dose of the flu, which had been lingering since Italy. The problem is, for these other small calamities have become the norm, is that Mexico City is about 2500m above sea level and the small parts of my lungs which are still functioning after having the flu, are just about to give up. I feel miserable but so excited to be in there for the first time.
I’m here to play a show as part of FICCO (Festival Internacional de Cine Contemporáneo a la ciudad de México) and also to see 3:19, the movie that I’ve been involved in scoring recently. I had just arrived after a 12hr flight from Paris stuck, as is my habit, in between a rather large gentlemen at each side, a woman with a broken seat in front (stuck in recline) and several loud and irritating media types overusing the French version of the term ‘daaahhhling’ and ‘luvvie’. My guess is that they’re on their way to FICCO as well. Whatever. After 2 hours at immigration I was met by someone from the festival who gave me a lift to my friend Dany’s place in Tecamachalco where I met his friend Jorge who I’d be staying with. Jorge’s grandmother was out of town and we had her house at our disposal, which after the indignities of my recent trip to Italy, seemed surreal. Surreal developed into plain bizarre when I realized that grandma’s maid was still there and seemed really happy to feed me and, at every opportunity walk into my bedroom while I was in a state of undress. Tecamachalco, indecently, seemed like many parts of California that I’ve been to except it’s a little cleaner and people drive to kill.
First let’s cover the real underlying reason for my visit, the first hand experience of Mexican Cuisine. The first night I arrived, after travelling for 16hrs, my friends took me to a local taco stand called El Farolito. I couldn’t have been happier than a pig rolling about in its own shite. The next morning, way too early if you asked me, my FICCO ‘volunteer’ arrived. I didn’t know what a FICCO ‘volunteer’ was; in fact I hadn’t a clue as I’ve recently taken to only reading things I have been given with view to remembering the things that it may be necessary to remember in future.
Like a long time from now.
Quite clearly this doesn’t work so well as I can never work out what may be important, however there is only so much room in my head and most of it is filled with useless facts from National Geographic magazine and other such non vital bollocks, how to name old bits of musical equipment and how to get to the dressing room in at a show I did in 1983 in Hannover. Other things, like people’s names, hotel room numbers and which order to put my clothes on in the morning, I have to write down.
It’s a coping skill, before you ask.
Anyway, as I was saying, my FICCO volunteer turned out to be an ususpecting young lady called Haydee. She quickly took control and gave my life some structure and ensured that I was in the right place at the right time, which as far as I could work out, was one rather shabby interview in 5 days. Apart from the fact that she drove her car like an insane person we enjoyed a steady flow of really good lunch spots and conversation.
The first was, well naturally, El Farolito but a different one, this time in the Condesa district, which had more of a small town vibe to it that part of a city of 30 million. I liked it. I would have been able to order from the menu with a certain panache, as I’d eaten the same food only the night before, but was happy to let Haydee chose for me. The best way to discover something new, I guessed. Over the next few days I certainly discovered a few more Mexican delights, including one which would have Mitsuo Tate roll in his grave, well, if he were dead at least, namely Mexican Sushi at Sushi Ito in Polanko. Now before you say wtf?, hear me out. Always hear a fat person out when it comes to food. … … It’s a really good fusion, I have to say, the fish wasn’t outstanding but the treatment with chipotle and habanera was unforgettable. I visited another Sushi Ito in Alta Vista a few days later and it didn’t disappoint. No sir. Apart from that, the other high point, from a culinary point of view was hanging out at Coyoacán on a Saturday and visiting the food market there. Um, the closest experience I can compare to the food market is eating at Djemaa el Fna in Marrakech, after the sun goes down. It was lots of home cooking, lots of grease and lots of happy looking folks. The real deal. Didn’t manage the tamales or flautas, but made up with excessive amounts of gorditas and quesadillas. I have yet to learn the Spanish word for my new fave, but it is fried pork skin in tomato if anyone can give me a name. Or a European supplier, come to think of it.
The concert I was invited to play at a museum, the Museo de la Ciudad de Mexico, was near the big square at Zócalo in the Centro Historico. The fact that I had been asked to play in a museum hadn’t gone unnoticed, as I couldn’t help but think that a museum is where one puts old things. I had to process that thought a little, bounce it around and turn it into ‘precious things’.
Now, I’ll go a bit into uncharted territory here as I try to tell you about the show.
First of all, the people who met me and helped me set up were fantastic. The venue itself was a beautiful choice and absolutely perfect for presenting Lumiere. The way that the venue had been set out with chairs and carpets for people to lie on was just right. The sound seemed pretty good and the atmosphere was intimate, even though it was quite a large space. Um, OK this is how it reads when I like something, just in case you’re confused. As I said, uncharted territory. So with all of those things in my favour, I felt that my equipment would blow up or my fingers would fall off but, no, I really enjoyed the performance, felt relaxed, especially by the audience being close and, by the look of things, very comfortable. It was, I remember thinking, as good a performance of Lumiere as I have even given. For me, it's very rare that the planets line up and allow me the right condition but this concert showed me that it can happen, especially if the people arranging the event read the stuff I send them about how to present it beforehand.
As for the film festival, well seeing 3:19 on a large screen and watching people react to it was a marvelous experience only marred by the lack of profile that the film was given. I was invited to a big glitzy end of festival party but it was kinda plasticky and I didn't care for it much. But of course, as I couldn't have imagined, FICCO had ambitions which went way beyond the nurturing of independent cinema, using sponsors like pepsi and cinemex to propel their little festival into the realms of Hollywood and judging from the closing ceremony this was a big mistake as it was quite simply the most tacky event that I’ve ever had the need to attend. And remember, I’ve lived in London and attended Sundance. Simply, the bullshit seems the same no matter what branch of the arts that you explore with any vigour. Not that I explore with vigour, I just attend, but the odour is unmistakable It’s a shame really, as most of the people from the festival were really cool, but I guess that the lower echelon soldiers didn’t have to suck Pepsi dick as much. It goes saying that 3:19 didn’t get a mention but it did receive a lot of praise from the more independent element, and critics seemed happy with it. My favourite interview, of course, was during a FICCO press conference when someone asked me if I could play any musical instruments. No, I said, as everyone smiled and quietly agreed with me.
One thing also that I enjoyed, apart from the happy experience of surviving Haydee's driving, was being able to spend a little time with the friends and colleagues that I've made in Mexico since becoming involved in that movie. It's nice to put faces to those who's work I've seen but who's names, up until now, were just movie credits.
I'm hooked. I'll be sitting by the phone waiting for another opportunity to go back. I'll be taking an oxygen bottle with me next time though.
Posted by robin at 9:14 PM | Comments (7)
February 23, 2008
The Italian Job
Day 1
I’m on tour in Italy. I arrived yesterday in Catania. I’ve never been to Sicily before so it’s fun just to look around and enjoy being somewhere else. Catania is surprisingly close to Mount Etna. The Italians, apparently lacking good judgment in such matters, seem to have chosen really odd places for some of their cities, Naples and Venice for example. Um, Pompeii comes to mind as well. Anyway, I’m going to be here for the next 10 days so I thought I’d write a little about it to illustrate the glamourous life I live and the torment I go through just to bring some fine tunes to some folks in Italy, well at least the folks who have the good taste to actually come along to one of my shows. I, sort of, suspect that won’t be many on this trip, but then, no one who knows me would exactly describe me as an optimist. I kinda think of myself as an optimist with experience, however that’s not the same. I'm lodged in a funky B&B called BAD and eat real good food at a restaurant called, well something vaguely commie sounding, can’t remember. Pee in the street on the way back to the B&B..tout va bien
Day 2
Show day. After promising myself that I’d get up and look around town, I lay in bed until lunchtime regretting, well, most things, but more exactly the choice of staying up late and peeing in the street.
Now, before we go any further, and because this is important, I should fill in a few blanks. I’m not travelling on my own this time, I’m travelling with a dear friend, who I’ve not seen for some time, who we’ll call Mark. Actually his name is Mark Cox, we’ve known each other forever, but hardly seen each other in the last 10 years, but I won’t write that so as not to break his anonymity.
Doh
Anyway I met Mark in Paris after he took a flight from London, where he lives and I took a train from Rennes, where I live. It was lovely to meet at the airport, check out each other’s graying hair and set off on our little road trip, chit-chatting away like we saw each other last week.
Have a look around the fish market in Catania, quickly decide that I wish to live there, eat lunch at the ‘L’Etoile d’Or’, reaffirm the decision, start looking for houses, then suddenly realize that I made a promise to myself never to buy a house on an active volcano. Call me old fashioned but, hey, each to his own. Anyway, I don’t need an active volcano, I have women in my life.
Next up, went to find the venue at the appropriate time mentioned on the contract, gave up after a couple of hours looking around in the dark at, as it happened, the wrong building, squeezed in some a little dinner, which would have tasted much nicer had the promoter paid for it as agreed, then found the place the show was happening, only to find it abandoned. Sat around, not quite sure what to do. I figured I was in the right place as there was a poster up on the wall with todays date on it. Waited… waited...waited some more. Eventually some people arrived, it’s already 10pm or so, and showed me where I should plug in, play, etc, did a very quick soundcheck , then, well, played the show.
Did the best I could.
Always do.
Hungry, looked for snacks afterwards. Don’t like fucking peanuts.
Got my picture taken with seven forty year old men.
However that wasn’t the funnest part of the evening, no sir. On the way back to B&B got arrested by a fat necked, sweaty, fucking caribinierri who told Mark to walk back the B&B as he didn’t have his passport with him. Well, of course he wouldn’t. He’s English. Fat neck made me get into the driver’s seat and drive. Umm, OK. I was rather tired and emotional. Tired and emotional as a newt, I think Mark put it, but, hey, best not to argue with a sweaty guy with a gun.
Good night.
Day 3
Sad to leave Sicily, really good arancini. Have to drive a bit to take the ferry to mainland Italy, across the straits of Messina, surely one of the worlds shortest and least impressive ferry crossings, however the Italians didn’t fail to impress with their alarming lack of efficiency and dismal attitude to those of us born outside Italy and unable to speak Italian. It’s OK though as I have experience of such things, living in France. While all the cars seemed able to get on to the two ferries which came and went while we were waiting, we pondered the logic of having a ticket office only open between 11am and 2pm selling tickets for the rest of the crossings for that day. Anyway, finally we managed to cross the straits in about fifteen minutes, on a ferry that we had arrived at some two and a half hours before.
Day 4
I’ve always wanted to experience Calabrian cuisine and, as I have a show in Cosenza, here’s the perfect opportunity. This should mean, a home cooked meal by someone’s mamma, super spicy, in relation to most Italian cooking, and mouthwateringly fresh. However tonight’s performance had been booked into a rather small rock club, totally inappropriate for performing ‘Lumiere’ but with friendly helpful locals. One can’t be disappointed if one is aware of people making an effort. However, the rather sad frozen hamburger dinner which was offered to me did disappoint after hearing so much about calabrasi cuisine.
Oh, I played a concert as well, with ‘Lumiere’ showing on a screen the size of a small TV.
I probably sucked, I can’t be sure as I was paying as much attention my performance as the organizers had paid to my contract, however I played the best I could in those circumstances. Got my picture taken with eleven forty year old men. At this point I’m thinking of printing some ‘Robin Guthrie, Why the Fuck do I Bother? Tour 2008’ T-shirts but I doubt I’d get many sales.
Day 4
I’d never been to Salerno. It’s very pretty. I had a bit of an adventure trying to drive around the old town, which was definitely not designed for motor traffic. We were accommodated in an odd sort of a youth hostel place by the local promoter Paulo, who we dined with that evening. This was arranged, no doubt, so that he could take the opportunity to break it to me gently that this was another rock club with a tiny projection screen. This whole touring business was, quite frankly, starting to seem a little surreal and the experience of sleeping in a bunk bed pretty much convinced me that I may be getting filmed for some candid camera reality TV sort of thing. Anyway, at the restaurant, I had gnocchi which was absurdly good and happened to ask one of the guys what the local delicacy was and he informed me it was mozzarella di buffala. As soon as I said that it was a big favourite of mine he whipped out his cell phone and called his mamma and asked her to prepare some. True to his word 1.5kg of the finest mozzarella arrived at the venue the next day. Yum. Next day I bought some pomodoro secchi, basil, olive oil and ciabatta to compliment it and had caprese in a little picnic area by the side of the highway, while watching the autostrada prostitutes hopping from one truck cab to the next. Who say’s touring isn’t fun? Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah, Salerno, did a show, was probably OK, got my picture taken with nine forty year old men.
At this stage I start to ask myself some questions. Things are OK, it’s nice to be somewhere new, it always is, but what the hell am I doing here? I have got this Lumiere thing together, informed everyone involved of the requirements for the performance to work, and am starting to feel like someone is taking the piss. Sure, it’s nice to be playing but I’ve only done one show so far which is anything like the type of place I can perform this in. I’ve said it before. It’s a sit down, chill out, get overwhelmed by the big screen images which float over you while listening to some, rather lovely, quiet instrumental music. It is not me playing at 1am, playing after a deafeningly loud rock band, or a DJ that is obsessed with A Forest, by The Cure, in a sweaty club, with a big bar, and people shouting , the rabble of cocaine idiot talk and strangest of all, everyone standing. This is, how could I put it, ever so slightly challenging for me.
And then someone brings their face to withina couple of inches from mine and says “Hi, just wanted to say… You’re a piece of history” and I think to myself “you’re a closed minded fucking asshole who has just been dancing to echo and the fucking bunnymen. You are so stuck in the past, fuckwit” but of course I politely say “Thank you”.
Now I’m starting to understand why some artists choose not to play or make records, preferring instead just to stay at home and become legendary. They must have been to Italy.
Day 5
Rome. Same shit, different day. Another fucking night club, oh, and it’s not my show anymore, it’s a festival now and there’s a bunch of other people playing before and after me, so I haven’t really got much stage to play on, but that’s OK as the screen is about the size of my TV at home. I’m starting to feel sorry for any audience members that actually wanted to see me, as seeing me in those conditions must be very uncomfortable. I ate a thouroughly average Pizza, probably the worst Italian food I’ve eaten (and remember I live in France…) however I was very happy to see an old friend, Allessandra, that I haven’t seen for about fifteen years and catch up. To Rococo Rot play and I think I like them, certainly liked the people when we had a chat. Got my picture taken with fourteen forty year old men. Went to the supermarket. Considered throwing all my musical equipment in the trash, filling up my suitcases with food and going home. Had some prosciutto instead.
Day 6
Bit of a travel day, drive 600km to Milan. I've discovered something called 'Pocket Coffee', a small, liquid centered, chocolate filled with coffee. Life is beautiful, once more. I’m enjoying the driving, always do even when driving towards, what can only be described as, the low spot of the tour. And this is, don’t forget, a tour of low spots. It had all the usual ingredients, no projector, wrong cables, monitors made from cornflake boxes, sticky floor, The Cure playing, the cleaners closet as a dressing room but a new added twist, no audience, well at least very few, but hey, one has to play for the people that are there, not the ones that didn’t come. Strangely, I actually enjoyed playing, for the first time, even although the sound was horrible. I think I may be getting better as the days go on… Oh, I get it, it’s practice. Right. OK. Well, whatever, I enjoy getting lost in the music and feel less and less pressure from the audience to be good. Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn, as the great man said. Another anomaly of the evening in Milan was that I saw Mark get cross with a waiter in a Restaurant. I’ve never even heard of Mark getting cross before. That can’t be the same guy I saw doing Tai Chi in the hotel lobby, could it?. As we left the venue and said our ‘goodnights’ and ‘thank you’s’ the promoter said “next time, bring a band”. I replied with a quick “next time bring an audience”. Well, it made me laugh. Truth is, I’d rather sever my own head off with a hacksaw than return to that place. Sorry. Got photo taken with five forty year old men.
Day 7
Guess What? Florence. Night Club… No wait, keep reading. What a fantastic place, a club called the Viper Theatre. Nice People, great sound, lights, 3 projectors, people that know what they are doing. Easily the most impressive looking visuals I’ve been able to present here. Wait, can this still be Italy? Ah, well actually, apparently so. Empty room syndrome again. Oh, well, at least there weren’t a lot of people dancing to A Forest either. Mark tells me to 'Let it be different'. He has a point, but it will take me a day or two for the word to sink in. Got my picture taken with four forty year old men. Had a quick drive into the city the next morning to look around like tourists. Pretty, but it’s not a day off, so hit the road. Starting to feel like I’m coming down with something.
Day 8
Like something out of Heidi, Rovereto is a town with an alpine flavor, wedged between mountains, you can’t help but fall upon it when heading north towards the Brenner pass. It’s really rather charming with that model train layout feel. After the last couple of shows I didn’t imagine that even the janitor of the venue would be there to let us in, as the theatre, yes, I said theatre, is a couple of kilometers out of town on the way up a mountain. Did I tell you that this touring thing could be surreal? But happily the promoter greeted us and was very helpful. I arrive at the theatre, which looks perfect, check out the equipment, which is all that I asked for, start thinking to myself ‘well if this is all OK, what will go wrong? Something will.’ Well, after a couple of low turn outs I was pleasantly surprised to play to a rather full house, which seemed very appreciative. I thought it was as good a ‘Lumiere’ performance as I have ever given. It certainly worked. I couldn’t help wondering if there was a connection between me being able to present the show in the correct environment and a successful performance and happy audience.
Just a thought.
Got picture taken with nine forty year old men, then had an early night, as I’ve definitely got something nasty. Can’t breathe and feel like shit. Goodnight.
Day 9
Bologna. Oh, it’s a club. Well some of my frantic calls and texts to my agent must have paid off as they’ve put some seats out and have another artist, a guy called Christian, performing a nice downtempo film and music piece. More of the show later. Lasagne Bolognaise, what a wonderful thing, especially in the little trattoria, like something out of a movie, which we were taken to. The food was really ridiculously good, the ambience perfect, and most affordable, as the promoter was paying. Someone else paying never fails to add a certain richness to the whole eating experience. Now, about that show, well, although it was in a club, I think it was quite nice. It was nice that the promoter had made an effort to make the environment more sympathetic to what I was trying to put across and the people, seemed to be relieved to be sitting down, when they saw me play. I could have done with a seat as well, as I was feeling really rough now, a snotty stuffed up nose and sore throat. Too many late nights, I guess. Got picture taken with seven forty year old men.
And that was that.
Dropped of my rental car at the airport, flew to Paris, said my thank you and goodbyes to Mark, got on a train home, got there near midnight. Go to bed. Feel ill, looking forward to sleeping for a week...
post script
The next morning at 11am I get a text message from Steve from Heligoland. It read's "did you get my email? I'm at La gare de Rennes ." To cut a long story short, I never did get that week in bed, nor even a day, as I've spent the whole of the last week mixing the Heligoland album. Then I hopped on train back to Paris, with my luggage still unpacked from my time in Italy and as I write this I'm in Mexico City, minus, it goes without saying, my luggage. But that's another story.
Posted by robin at 8:05 PM | Comments (12)
December 22, 2007
Twinkle...
So this is Christmas.
I am at the top of a very wobbly ladder in my garden attaching Christmas lights to a tree. I am 45 years old. I feel like Rod Hull. My cellphone has gone off twice in the last five minutes, Steve from Heligoland arranging an upcoming session and a text from my friend Gaelle, who couldn’t possibly know that I am up a tree but will surely feel bad if I a/ fall off, b/ electrocute myself, c/ fall off while electrocuting myself. Nevertheless this is Christmas and I’ve a very strong urge, no, need, to hang little lights in my trees and become festive. I realize that for the last couple of years Christmas has come at a really inconvenient time to me, usually halfway through a session or something equally as inconsequent, but this year, as if responding to some primeval programming, I’m breaking out the Dean Martin Christmas album and acting altogether like a middle aged man who realizes that there is only a finite number of Christmas’s left to experience. That, and I bought some really cool little lights from Ikea which change colour, allowing me almost to relive, albeit briefly, being off my face at a Happy Mondays show in the late 80’s, albeit without the fear of an imminent drug death but maintaining the risk factor by standing atop a somewhat wobbly metal ladder in my garden while connected to the mains electricity. Anyway, bottom line is my six year old Violette saw the lights and told me that they were, and I quote, “delightful and magical”. So I guess it’s fuck you to anyone who cares to believe that it’s not cool to hang little lights in trees.
And what have you done?
Well, you know, I met a man named Mark Mushet from Vancouver BC earlier this year, a portrait photographer with few peers, and he, being a man with obvious good taste, looks at this weblog every once in a while. While talking with him about what I write here he told me that he didn’t know what to make of the lengthy pauses between my posts, and then, after lingering to reflect for a moment, was able to inform me that during such pauses all must be well. Well, you know, there’s something in that, as I do just tend to bitch about what’s not well, or even worse, obsess on the petty and unimportant issues, instead of churning out press releases on what I’m up to, as if it really matters. So, naturally, here I am, recapping a little on some of the things I have done this year. It’s not over yet, I’ve a couple more things to do get done but, without the aid of a written diary I’ve, produced an album for the outrageously talented Annie Barker from Los Angeles CA, I’m currently producing an album for Australia’s Heligoland, a project which is taking everyone involved to a new level, producing an album for Resplandor, from Lima, Peru, a group I fell in love with after seeing them play, I’ve done collaborations with Ulrich Schnauss, a rather talented young German fellow and Manual, a rather talented young Danish fellow. Of course, then there is Mahogany, led by the rather talented young Andrew Prinz and fellow New Yorkers Apollo Heights, who I’ve had the pleasure of knowing for such a long, long time. It’s truly heartwarming to see the aforementioned getting the credit that they deserve. Also from NYC, The School of Seven Bells, from Oxford, England, a certain Mr Mark Gardener and from Brussells, Colour Kane. And then of course, there are the two albums that I’ve made with Harold Budd, After the Night Falls and Before the day Breaks not to mention Telefon Tel Aviv and Honeychild Coleman. Yes, they have certainly taken up some of my time this year, as did the soundtrack to the Dany Saadia movie 3.19, come to think of it.
Naturally it’d be easy to imagine me stuck in my studio all year but I’ve managed to play some shows as well, in the USA, UK, Chile, Peru, Norway, France, Spain and Italy and maybe even more but, hey it’s late and I can’t even remember what I had for breakfast.
Another year over..
Oh yeah, I remember, the one with no summer. Boy, did I feel silly buying that big assed gas barbeque. Tell you what I did do that was eventful though, apart from all the messing around with musicians, that is, I put a new mixing desk in my studio and built myself a quad core music computer..
And a new one just begun
Well that's a little presumptuous, given that it's Dec 22nd but here's what I want/have to do before the new year is too old. I have to finish the Resplandor lbum, the Heligoland album and I really need to make some "Robin Guthrie" music for a new CD, I want/need do shows in Peru, Russia, Itally and Mexico..I want to wear a suit to the premiere of 3.19 and I want/need to find out why my new desk doesn't save things properly. I want to be very careful while taking the Christmas lights down from the trees in my garden and I need to do all of those things before March, as I have my annual dream of taking it easy to fulfil...
Posted by robin at 12:14 AM | Comments (25)