Sunday, April 26, 2009
Wake Up - The Arcade Fire
I decided to stop this because it was taking away from my real, unfiltered mental thought processes and subsequent writing. Not that what came before this wasn't "real", but I realized that when I look back on my time abroad, I'll want something tangible and more raw then entertaining or show-offish. Bloggers, by nature, compose posts for others to read, and who your readers are never leaves the back of your mind. I had dozens of stories to post that I didn't necessarily want family to read; likewise I had things to write that I didn't want friends to read. So I just stopped and turned my focus to filling up journals with whatever came into my head. Grocery lists, flight confirmations, song lyrics or even multi-page stories. I filled a single moleskine during 3 weeks of backpacking with some of the best thoughts and words I've had in years, and I can't wait to read them again a long time from now.
I realized that I shouldn't need to post stories here. And that need went away.
If there's one thing I've learned from this abroad experience, it's that "real" life should always take precedence over the "virtual" life that all of us now knowingly or unknowingly possess. Now that is about the most stereotypical blogged statement that I can imagine. So Cheers London.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Walking out of my apartment late at night to get College Pizza. Heavy snow. Peanut Butter & Jelly and Green Tea after class. My double bed, reading chair, living room couches and permanently buckled rugs. Cable TV (specifically HBO). Break from work every night to watch Daily Show and Colbert with Nate. George Foreman and his ability to knock out fat. Renting movies from Mike's on late Saturday afternoons. Altered-state walks and talks to Taco Bell. Thursday nights. Spending no more than 5 dollars to drink, if having to pay at all. New music and various iPods plugged into my PA system. Pong. Football Saturdays. Weeknight concerts. 1 glazed, 1 chocolate frosted, and a medium cream and sugar from Dunkin' between classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Rarely waking up before 11:00. Reading the Collegian in a large lecture. Mclanahan's $2.89 subs and Buffalo Chicken cold cuts in my fridge. Not wearing everything 2-3 times before doing laundry (upwards of 10 pounds per load here). Freezing, dark walks home from the library with headphones on. Basketball or racquetball at the IM building, listening to The LION 90.7 during the car ride there and back. Time passing slowly. Impromptu jams in Andy's basement. Blue sky Fridays and day drinking in the courtyard outside of my window.
Clean bed sheets and bathrooms. Not thinking twice about laundry. Fully-stocked fridge and cabinets. Warm quietude. Wawa hoagies, Wendy's combos and Paisano's Cheesesteaks. Good beer for free. Hot, hearty meals and dessert. Stacks of newspapers (all current) on the living room sofa. Bare feet on hardwood floors. Waffles and bacon on late mornings while watching TV. Digital cable and On Demand. Driving home in my Jeep. Beer pong in the basement, late nights on the front porch. My room (3 1/2 times the size of the room I'm in now). Rows of vinyl in the dining room and the pop of the component buttons on the 70s stereo receiver. Clips from The Times that my parents thought would interest me waiting by the computer keyboard every morning. Laying in the hammock with a Corona on the grass. Cutting through the backyard fence to get to Tim's house, hoping to avoid dog shit. Writing articles on my porch. Knowing that, no matter what, there's always at least three Mama Celestes in the freezer.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Animal Collective "My Girls" from Chad von Nau on Vimeo.
I still can't get over the title of this album, or the album itself, which has been internationally swooned over for the past 2 months...
For, Merriweather Post Pavilion, the suburban Maryland amphitheater, was the site of my first concert:
No Doubt, Lit and The Black Eyed Peas (pre-Fergie)
Couldn't be more ashamed/proud.
Friday, February 13, 2009
They stand there, decaying felt-lined cases cracked open, with their 12-inch battery-powered amps fastened to a pull cart by bungee cords. They play shitty guitar on shitty guitars. Most simply strum skewed riffs or out-of-place solos over looped instrumentals that sound more artificial than one-touch commands on Casio keyboards. The performers are usually strange European men in their early 30s who awkwardly bounce to their respective butchering of the same four Beatles songs. They neglect the echo factor of performing in a train station and often play so loud that their weathered amps crackle and buzz, more annoying than entertaining, and certainly not "art."
Sometimes though, you will come across musicians on your way to or from a train that will absolutely make your night. Just yesterday I heard a stellar acoustic version of "Sex On Fire" with pitch-perfect vocals while exiting at St. Paul's. On my rush hour trip home from Oxford Circus I usually pass an old black man playing harmonica and scatting into a lo-fi microphone. A few nights ago I passed a scraggly blond guy in his early 20s playing a mean didjeridoo. Last Saturday, however, I heard and watched one of the best musicians I've seen so far in all of London. From the top of the escalator at Old Street I could hear a familiar bluesy riff, though highly unstructured and increasingly improvised. I kept listening as I got closer: through one hallway, through another, round the bend with the circular safety mirror, down the stairs. What was then a meandering solo effortlessly faded into the opening bars of "Red House." The guitarist, an aging black man with long, thick dreds, stood right on the platform, blocking the station list. Nowhere near a designated performance mat, no permit. It was Saturday night and he was playing his own version of the extended intro most closely linked to "Electric Church Red House" off of Jimi Blues. And then he started singing. If I could accurately describe the essence of his voice, particularly as a complement to his instrument, it wouldn't have been real blues. This was real.
I tossed a pound into the black bag at his feet and reluctantly boarded the train, instantly wishing I had sat there all night.
It was something quite like this...
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
I googled Groundskeeper Willie in hopes of finding a clip of him in the one-man-band getup performing "I'm a Maniac," but found this audio clip instead, which is one of my all-time favorite quotes from the show:
I also found this article, which is worth reading in its entirety, but here are a few notable paragraphs:
Americans don't know much about Scotland and what they do know is mainly bad. Should the Scots be worried?
Forget Sean Connery, Ewan McGregor, Rod Stewart or even Scottie from Star Trek - for many Americans, Scotland is summed up by grumpy, aggressive Groundskeeper Willie from The Simpsons...Despite all the promotional efforts, research funded by the Scottish government finds Groundskeeper Willie is the character most Americans associate with Scotland.
But as regards the rest of it - the Groundskeeper Willie characteristics of undue aggression, grumpiness and testosterone - why fight it?...Fighting for your right to party is in with the bricks in Scotland. Clan chiefs originally owned no land, but were judged by the number of fighting men they could summon at times of war. Urban gangs seem to operate the same warped code of honour. But then so do the Tartan Army - repeatedly voted the best football supporters in the world because of their discipline, good humour, ability to get on with host nations and evident pride in not behaving with the enduring neddishness of some England supporters.
If Americans can't name any Scottish cities, this reflects badly on the inward-looking, self focusing nature of their own society. Elsewhere in the world Scotland punches well above its weight, thanks to the Edinburgh International Festival and its Hogmanay celebrations. And scarcely a week goes by without Glasgow - despite its all too evident problems - bagging another international accolade. This month, No Mean City won the best marketing award from the International Congress and Convention Association this year. Eighty countries voted for that - but duh! - doubtless the Americans know better.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Hi-Fi - M. Ward
"Do you mind if I put something else on?" Claire, my British neighbor asked. I was pushing undercooked pasta around my plate and wincing at chunks of what felt like artificial tomatoes. "Not at all," I replied. She stood up to manually change the channel on the 13-inch decaying black box that's perched in the corner of our kitchen. There's no remote, of course, and no designated channel or volume buttons. Some times the "+" button gives you a new channel, some times the British accents simply become louder. We get 6 channels in all, 2 of which broadcast the same programming on higher stations. Each channel comes in fuzzier than the one before, all with the same horizontal snowy lines that used to appear on our TV when my mom would cut chicken with an electric knife.
I was half-heartedly reading that day's thelondonpaper, a free evening tabloid that's literally pushed into your hands at the entrance of every tube station during rush hour. The purple-jacketed fleet of distributors is known for its aggressive tactics to increase circulation; the guy at the nexus of the Oxford Circus rat race slaps two folded papers together to startle passersby into taking his handout. I was on page 19 looking at a montage of paparazzi shots of British celebrities I haven't heard of -- except one, under which the caption read: "SHOREDITCH 3PM: Keira Knightley really gets into the hoodie look, out shopping in east London. She's even mastered the trademark scowl." Yeah, that's my neighborhood.
"It's 6 o'clock," the female anchor announced right before Claire navigated away from BBC News. Then I heard, in recognizable succession: a car screeching to a halt, a skateboard bouncing off the metal roof, then "D'oh!"..."Aaaahhhhh!"
"Do you like The Simpsons?" she asked.
I laughed. This was how I grew up, I explained, through all of grade school, most of high school and even some of college. "This" being dinner at 6 while watching Simpsons. "Me too," she laughed back "but not until I was a bit older." So we sat there, me with my cardboard pasta and she with her ominous microwaved stew, watching the yellow family who we knew like our own, the family that we apparently both ate dinner with, 5 nights a week, in different parts of the world.
"Prepare to experience an initial high, followed by an extreme low, followed by a period of adjustment when you realize that this isn't merely a vacation, but how you're going to live for a long period of time." These were the words they hammered into us before leaving Penn State, shortly after our arrival at the CIEE orientation and a few days later during our first day at Westminster. I was skeptical and put myself "above" this pattern, but it proved to be pretty accurate. While my "low" was nowhere near extreme, it did come after a few days of returning to my minimalist flat where hot showers were not guaranteed and my cabinets had food from the grocery store that seems just a little bit...off. And while I'm still not accustomed to the fewer hours of daylight (it usually gets dark at 4:30), things feel pretty normal. I find myself noticing British accents less and less, and this past week I couldn't have felt more welcome as an American.
To get into the magnitude of this country's adoration for Obama would be useless, for it seems that they are more uniformly behind him than "we" are. Every day last week he was on the front page of every paper and dominated every news broadcast. TimeOut did an entire feature on "where to watch the big day in London," for which a few of us chose the official "Democrats Abroad" party at the Texas Embassy, a neo-American Tex-Mex bar in Trafalgar Square. We were among the last to make it in before they were officially over capacity just after 4pm. It seemed like a mix of young ex-patriots and Brits of all ages who knew what to do without being told; they booed Bush, scoffed at the sight of Cheney in a wheelchair and cheered emphatically for Obama, particularly after a line in his speech about accepting atheism. (Sidebar: Atheism dominates other "isms" here; there's a new ad campaign on the tube that says: "There's probably no God. Stop worrying and live your life.") I was suprised that the dozen or so flat screens were tuned to CNN, just as I was that they were tuned to Fox two nights earlier for the Eagles game at the Sports Cafe. It felt strange and homelike to hear Wolf Blitzer and Anderson Cooper's commentary again, having watched CNN for a few hours nearly every single day between February and November of 2008. The images made me miss home and my home at Penn State, but it was the shots of D.C. that really got me. I still remember going to Bill Clinton's public events during inauguration week with my parents and thinking how cool it was to be a Washingtonian. Then I thought back to election night and the drunken phone calls and text messages flying through Andy's house in State College, or how Andy and Rob were there, right now, in that frozen sea of people, where I would be if I wasn't here.
Later that night I saw an incredible jazz trio at Favela Chic, a weird and newly-famous corner bar two blocks from my flat. It was a world away from the nightly cover bands at O'Neill's, the toursity bar in Piccadilly that people are finally getting over.
Here they are live at The Crypt in the basement of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, where we saw the English Chamber Choir and Belmont Ensemble perform Mozart Requiem: A Mozart Birthday Concert last night. It was, once again, quite juxtaposed to the afternoon I spent wandering the Camden Markets (below).
In other news, the whole group is going to Edinburgh this weekend. Pics of the Groundskeeper Willie memorial (if it indeed exists) and detailed reports on haggis to come next week.