Busybuddy

All Roads Lead To Sycamore

2011-10-25T09:11:00.000-07:00

Part II: 'Sycamore... next stop Sycamore...'
(with excerpts from 'I'll Make A Note Of It' -The Fleshtones In Spain, 2009)

"...you're just in the van the whole freakin' time!" -Joe Emery (The Ugly Beats), on touring in Spain.

Spain isn't Belgium. The country's size allows for some 'dimension' to touring. There are still some 8-hour drives (more when you toss in a leisurely Spanish roadside lunch, which I insist you do), but it's a far cry from our days of long-distance motoring along Spain's lethal Franco-era 3-lane highways (the middle lane being for 'passing' -from either direction). God, the carnage we witnessed along those roads. Anyway, like Cervantes said "it's the road, not the inn".

Despite the glories of the Alcazar, crossing the towering 'Picos De Europa' and glimpsing Africa across the Straights of Gibraltar, after three weeks in a mini-van, even the most stunning landscape becomes monotonous as it endlessly unreels past your eyes. First-day-of-the-tour enthusiasm for projects like as-you-drive Spanish lessons fade, your favorite music dissolves into an indistinguishable buzz, and the novel you had been waiting to have this kind of undisturbed time to delve into drops from your hand as you find yourself drifting in and out of a state of half-consciousness. Perhaps it's the speed, or the overwhelming brutality of modern motor-way design -the same black and white-striped ribbon, plowing through, and almost negating the features of the countryside. This strangeness extends to anywhere that's home to the long-haul, like last spring on the highways of Oklahoma and Texas. Was that a caged tiger that just passed by my window?

We're hurtling towards Murcia in extreme south-eastern Spain. At the wheel, our manically heroic road manager, 'Jimmy' Garcia. For how long I couldn't be sure, we were winding through region of bare, beige-colored stone mountains crowned by ruined castles dating from the time of The Cid, the Moors, or even earlier. Crumbled monolithic cubes cut from the same stone, they seemed to grow like extensions of the mountaintops themselves. We were passing a desolate town. Folded into a ravine, it was watched over by another ruined castle set into a jaw-like ridge like a broken molar. I was overcome with anxiety as I oscillated between staying awake and a vague dream-state. There was something I absolutely had to remember, but what?
...I have to remember...
I tried to remain conscious, but couldn't. Remember what?
...Remember to tell...
Tell who?
...I must tell her...
Tell Her? Her who? Tell her what?!"
...remember to tell her about tying flies...

The Fleshtones attend The First Sycamore International Film Festival, 09/22 -25/11

The Kishwaukee River near Sycamore, Il

The documentary film 'Sycamore', (2011, dir. Sheila Lahey) opens with a long-time resident relating the old Indian legend that once you dip your feet into the Kishwaukee River you must return to Sycamore. The Kishwaukee, a tributary of the Rock River, meanders through the countryside a mile or so outside of Sycamore and has served as summer swimming hole for generations of youths growing up in this north-Illinois prairie town. In fact, Kishwaukee means 'Sycamore River' in the native Potowatomi language.
Crossing the small bridge over the Kishwaukee, a sign welcomes you with the town's unpretentious slogan 'Life Offers More In Sycamore'. It also states the population as 17,500. Later, a town official at the reception for the film 'Sycamore' mentioned it's closer to 12,000. Sycamore itself offers many of the comfortable aspects of small-town America -the county courthouse (the DeKalb County Courthouse -the envy of the nearby, and vastly larger city of Dekalb), it's monument to its glorious dead of The Civil War, and it's business district of 19th century red-brick buildings and banners announcing civic events like the upcoming 50th Annual Pumpkin Festival (10/28/11). Local specialties are real milk shakes (I didn't have a chance to try one) and 'Italian beef' sandwiches -a sort of variant on the thin-shaved 'Philly' steak, with or without the cheese, but most preferably 'au jus' (which I did try, courtesy of the Film Festival via a gift certificate in my 'swag' bag).
The Fleshtones were in town for a screening of Geoffrey Barbier's documentary feature on the band 'Pardon Us For Living (But The Graveyard Is Full) as well as a live performance as part of the 1st Sycamore International Film Festival. Besides Geoffrey's film, there would be entries from Norway, Spain, South Korea as well as the USA. Among the panelists would be Joe Bonomo, author of Fleshtones bio 'Sweat' ( http://www.nosuchthingaswas.com/ ), who was coming over from DeKalb, where he holds a 'lit' chair at the university.

The State Theatre, venue for The 1st Sycamore International Film Festival. Copies of old lobby cards announced the 'all talking' double bill of Joan Crawford in 'Our Blushing Brides' (one of the sequels to her silent 'Our Dancing Daughters') and Jack Oakie in the intriguing 'Sap From Syracuse'. You'd think we'd be the saps in Sycamore, but wound up being charmed by the open-armed welcome we received. We found ourselves mouthing 'Syc -A -More, Syc -A -More' in a cadence recalling the 'Will -O -Bee!' from Twilight Zone episode 30, season 1, 'A Stop At Willoughby'. Like our stay here, the film 'Sycamore' made us feel we all shared the American small-town experience (yes, that includes Canadians). Even in Maspeth, imbedded as it is in the middle of New York City and bordering on Brooklyn, many of these qualities survived, at least when I spent the first thirteen years of my life there, 1954-1967.
.

No sweat -Mary Kim Wood, proprietor, whips up a breakfast of pumpkin pancakes, crisp bacon, scrambled eggs and more at The Paper Doll House (http://thepaperdollhouse.com/Home.html).
Unlike the the rest of the guys who stayed at a downtown hotel, Bill Milhizer and I were billeted in this grand 1890's B&B. I'd like to say I'll be returning soon, but I would have to join a weekend 'scrapbook retreat' for ladies -the inn's regular business. Hmmm, I might be ready for that.

After the screening of Pardon Us For Living, we performed at Blumen Gardens (www.blumengardens.com), an 'event' location and landscaping nursery (!) that was one of the more unusual venues we have played. Proprietor Joel Barczak even gave us all daffodil bulbs as a parting gift. Then, toting our Sycamore Film Festival swag bags, we departed for Hamtramck, Buffalo and Hamilton.
The Fleshtones played what will probably be their last performance of 2011, in a spectacular setting overlooking Lake Travis (http://www.unclebillysaustin.com/lt-landing/) near the irrevocably lost Eden of Hippy Hollow. All present will agree, there was something in the air that night.

Now what?

Well, there is eBay: http://www.ebay.com/sch/eggetravel/m.html?_nkw=&_armrs=1&_from=&_ipg=&_trksid=p3686
One thing is certain, we will return to Sycamore some day because The Fleshtones have dipped their feet in the Kishwaukee River.

(www.sycamorefilmfestival.com)

We are racing, it seems like hours now, down a Spanish highway towards the city of Leon...
...I was flooded with a feeling of almost heart-breaking relief, like being able to fill my lungs with air after being held under water for what should have been a fatally long time. Financially speaking, I realized my troubles were finally all over. Along with our friend Jorge of the Spanish rock group 'Dr. Explosion', we're in the middle of a film shoot in a deserted 'Spaghetti-Western' town somewhere along the road we were now traveling. Standing around between 'takes' in our Flintstones-style caveman outfits, all we had to do was film some 'filler' to link together the twelve musical 'clips' we already had. Then the feature movie would be finished. Easy. We had it made.
Jorge Explosion was enthusiastic as usual. He looked like Barney Rubble strutting about and joking with a huge prop caveman club over his shoulder.
"Yeah, but don't you know Jorge is getting a million bucks for doing this?" a voice interjected in the hopes of deflating my euphoria with a green dart of jealousy.
Who cares? We've got the songs, there'll be enough for everybody. All of my problems are solved.
"We're going to call it 'First Men' explained the Spanish director "because the way it is said in English -'the men who had come first' -it is too long".
What? I figured in English we just said 'Cavemen'.
"No" insisted the director "The men who had come first, -'First Men' is better!"
Okay, 'First Men' , whatever, who cares, my troubles are over...

-Peter Zaremba

Busybuddy -All Over The Place

2011-10-19T05:29:00.000-07:00

All Roads Lead To The 1st Sycamore International Film Festival, Sycamore, Illinois
(a journey in two parts -I promise)

Vladimir Illich Lenin, looking better than he has in years. For the time being, visiting Lenin's Tomb remains a Moscow 'must-do' -and one which won't cost you a single kopek.

Part I

"Who wants to read about what the Fleshtones eat?" declared Harrisburg music promoter extrodinaire and bon vivant John Trainor, as he sliced into his magret de canard, "you should be writing about music!" A truly creative personality, you've got to seriously consider what John has to say. I thought I had been writing about music, among other things. Truth is, I never had any ambition of being a 'music critic', at least in print. My opinions would be too predictable. At that very moment, however, The Fleshtones were enjoying dinner with Trainor, and as usual in Harrisburg PA, a very good one at that, along Mike Giblin and other members of The Parallax Project (http://www.myspace.com/parallaxproject). So the only other thing I'll say about the meal was that it was followed by an even more memorable night at Harrisburg's extraordinary Midtown Arts Center (http://harrisburgarts.com/) -a night most of which I can remember during which I suffered no injuries.

Before leaving town the next morning, we headed over to The Alva (19 South 4th Street; 717 238-7553), an old downtown diner/boarding house where there seems to be a party going on no matter what time of day you drop in. Even John Trainor admits to eating here whenever he's got to catch the 'Amtrak' at the city's old 1887 station. A convivial crowd was gathered at the counter, knocking 'em back while pumping money into a jukebox loaded with heavy r&b and rap. The menu special that really caught my eye were the dollar cans of beer. "What brands of beer do you have for a dollar?" I asked, momentary stumping the waitress. Realizing I really didn't need to know, I just ordered one. It proved to be the wise choice, along with my burger special ($2.98) which was a thin, diner-style patty sans special sauces or any other such gunk, served with potato chips as they do in certain parts of our country. Just right for a light lunch.

Why fight it? Keith Streng -drifting into that mellow Alva vibe.

Across Blackberry Street from The Alva -site of The National Whig Convention of 1839 -Tippicanoe and Tyler too! The Fleshtones once made a pilgrimage to the Tippicanoe Battlefield in Indiana where I came away with a small fragment of The Prophets Rock (that's not a surf instrumental). Maybe I should put that up for sale on ebay too?

Didn't I promise we'd be heading to the First Sycamore International Film Festival in DeKalb County Illinois? There The Fleshtones would perform as well as attend a screening of director Geoffrey Barbier's documentary on us 'Pardon Us For Living (but the Graveyard is Full)'. I did not promise by the most direct route. I finally downloaded more than a year's worth of snapshots that I recorded on my ancient LG 360 celephone (accidentally deleting scores of photos in the process). More than enough survived...

Ken Fox unwinds under the palm-thatched roof of the beach-bar at the track -in sunny Fort Erie, Canada (09/26/11).

Due to current economic trends, it seems like I'm getting more more social messages via my ongoing auctions of personal belongings on 'Ebay' (http://www.ebay.com/sch/eggetravel/m.html?_nkw=&_armrs=1&_from=&_ipg=&_trksid=p3686 ) than I do on Facebook these days. At least that's how Dan Barrett reached out to invite us for an afternoon at lovely Fort Erie Racetrack (http://www.forterieracing.com/), right across the border from Buffalo. Dan recalls spending many a weekend there as a child. His Uncle Omar, who worked on the nearby Welland Canal, was so devoted to the track that his ashes were scattered at the finish line opon his death. Or was it Toronto discophile Randy Black's Uncle Omar? Anyway, Jean Trivitt later commented that she hope they at least got his ashes OVER the finish-line. If not, what a hellish way for a track hound to spend eternity?
However picturesque and historic it is, Dan admitted that Fort Erie is decidedly a 'B' racing venue. Erie does get it's moment of glory each July however, when it hosts the Prince Of Wales Stakes, a component of The Queen's Plate -Canada's Triple Crown. The Fleshtones hope to be there. Unusual also is the large percentage of female jockeys among regular riders at the track. Thanks to the handicapping skills of Bill Milhizer, I actually came away $1.50 richer. And here I am, wasting my time auctioning off my records and memorabilia on ebay! It's barely an hour's drive across Ontario's compact Niagara Wine Country from Fort Erie, to Hamilton and Lou Molinaro's latest rock & roll club 'This Ain't Hollywood' (http://www.thisainthollywood.ca/cms/) where we'd be playing that night. Affectionately nicknamed 'The Hammer', few people would mistake this rough-around-the-edges steel town for Hollywood, USA -thank God. It's the one place in the Dominion where you'd figure I had long-lost Canadian cousins thereabout.

3 Mystics on stage, This Ain't Hollywood, 09/26/11; photo: Jean Trivitt
We lucked into a fine Portuguese dinner that night that I won't be telling you much about either. Later, The Mystics opened the evening with a refreshing set of spirited garage-pyschadelia. Joe Emery of The Ugly Beats agrees their new eight-song CD is really good (LOOSE LIPS 002), but there are only 50 copies available (mystics333@gmail.com). Anyway it is always gratifying to see anyone under 50 playing rock and roll. We didn't realize Hamilton's own Gord Lewis of Teenage Head fame was in the house as we plowed through a rendition of their classic 'You're Tearin' Me Apart' , but he did join us later in our set (not much later -things move fast when we play) during 'Push Up Man'.

Gord Lewis wrangles Streng's guitar, This Ain't Hollywood, 09/26/11; photo: Jean Trivitt

We spent the night at the local Admiral Inn (http://www.admiralinnhamilton.com/), a 'modern-style' motel at the entrance to the city. The dining room overlooking the parking lot is popular with locals for a nice evening out, and as we checked in at about 5:30PM, the tables were sprinkled with folks having supper. By 7:30 it's usually empty. The Inn is also right across York Boulevard from one of the city's notable attractions -although not generally cited for such refinements, Hamilton does possess an authentic 'castle'.

Dundurn Castle(dundurn@hamilton.ca), picturesquely crowns a bluff overlooking Lake Ontario. It was built by Alan Napier McNab, hero of Stony Creek, where one of the United State's many inept invasions of Canada was thwarted during the War Of 1812. He was later knighted and became premier of pre-Confederation Canada. The dreary skies only add to the 'Englishness' of the scene, don't you think?

'Music' enough? -Steve Wynn and The Baseball Project at last March's 'South By South West' Festival in Austin, TX. Of course I was prepared not to like them, but the songs were just too good. For us, the trip was a typical installment of SXSW, fun, frantic and ultimately pointless, but it did give us the opportunity to catch up with Steve as well as our agent Roggie Baer (http://www.rajiworld.com/), Texas favs The Ugly Beats and The Sons Of Hercules, Israeli group Electra and Gourmet Delicé, formerly of my favorite Canadian Francophone band Les Secretaires Volantes.

This summer Marilla and I made good on our long-standing promise to our son Sergei and we returned to the land of his birth, Russia. On the itinerary was a stay in St. Petersburg, Moscow and a pilgrimage to the medieval Russian Orthodox center of Sergeiv Posad to visit the tomb of his patron saint -and that of all of Russia, Saint Sergius.

July 31, 2011: Navy Day in sea-going St. Petersburg. Sergei delighted in the city's cavernous and musty museums dedicated to the various branches of the former Soviet armed forces.

Midnight on Krykova Canal in front of our hotel, the 19-room Alexander House (http://www.slh.com/destinations/europe/russia/st-petersburg/alexander-house-hotel/), looking west to its intersection with the Moika Canal. The hotel is named for Alexander Suvarov, a general who lived a few doors down the street who figures in 'War And Peace'. Leading character Pierre and his carousing pals tossed a policeman bound to a dancing bear into the Moika as well. Also along its embankments is the palace where Prince Yuri Usapov and his accomplices murdered Rasputin on a winter's night in December, 1916. They later shoved his lifeless (they thought) body under the ice, however, of the nearby 'Little' Neva Canal.

The Cavestompers in action -I have my doubts about groups with designated tambourine-players, but Petr Chinavat's percussion and dancing gave a 'Gerard Malanga' edge to their performance that, along with Greg Eniosov's drumming, sets the Cavestompers apart from other garage rock bands.

Besides meeting us at the train in the pouring rain (thank you Petr) and showing us around Moscow, the Cavestompers (http://www.myspace.com/thecavestompers) were kind enough to learn a set of Fleshtones-style material so I could perform with them. It seemed that at least one rehearsal with me was in order. Getting to the rehearsal was a standard Moscow procedure -one of the bandmembers put out his hand along Ulitsa Prokovka , a passing motorist stopped and agreed to drive us there for a hundred rubles (about USD$3.50). A bit of positive fallout from Soviet times is the ability of a garage rock band to have access to a rehearsal facility like the Prokofiev Music Academy, and I arrived the band was already at work on an auditorium stage beneath a towering portrait of the composer ("you know he informed on his own wife to stay in favor with Stalin" someone whispered).

The performance was held at Cafe Squat (http://www.squatcafe.ru/), which was not a 'squat' at all, but an appropriately funky club complete with go-go cages not far from the utterly chilling old Soviet Secret Police HQ and prison at Lubianka. The 'Stompers surprised me with an impressive first set of originals and garage-rock classics. My only complaint is that they did not perform more songs in Russian. Then, while they beat out our 'Theme from The Vindicators' I took to the stage (well, there really isn't a stage per se). The set came off way better than I could have reasonably hoped for. In fact, it was a blast. We performed ancient Fleshtones relics like 'BYOB', the Love Delegation's arrangement of Lee Hazelwood's 'Some Velvet Morning', then began improvising around Richard Berry's 'Have Love Will Travel' and songs that sound like 'Louie Louie'. I can't wait to return to Moscow with The Fleshtones. Afterwards, everyone, Sergei included, danced as Greg and Petr deejayed old 45s. Then we met up with Bernie Sucher at his excellent Chicago Prime Restaurant (http://www.chicagoprime.ru/). Bernie, also an American ex-pat, was an early importer of much-needed quality restaurant know-how (and notions of customer service) to Moscow, and had offered invaluable advice in sorting out our Russian visa dilemmas prior to our trip.

In Moscow we stayed at the somewhat over-the-top 'Mamaison All-Suites Spa Hotel Prokovka' (http://www.mamaison.com/moscow-pokrovka.html) in the pleasantly-hip Chisty Prudy (Clean Ponds) neighborhood. Here, as everywhere across the city, it seemed gaping stretches of every sidewalk had been torn out, a result our Muscovite friends quipped, of the sudden need to have them repaved with blocks from a company owned by the new mayor's wife.

A 'new' Russian leaves his wheels where convenient -in the walkway of Hotel Mamaison. We had never before seen that model of Ferrari, nor of many of the scores of hyper-luxury automobiles that we saw strewn across Moscow's streets.

Honoring the Moscow ritual of meeting beneath the Pushkin statue in the square informally named for Russia's most beloved author, we rendezvoused with friend and American ex-pat Steven Konigsburg, who then raced us through the city's Tverskaya district to met up with his Russian-born wife Viktoria. She had been waiting for us at the wildly popular 'Scandinavia' (http://www.scandinavia.ru/). The cafe was packed with a stylish crowd enjoying after-work drinks. We joined the over-flow patrons, drinking our beer while sitting on the front step. Then we rapidly wove our way past Patriarch's Ponds Park (where the Devil appears in the first chapter of Bulgakov's novel 'The Master And Margarita') to Karetny Dvor Cafe (Povarskaya 52; tel: 291 6376), not far from the foot of the Kudrinskaya Square Building, one of the more bizarrely spectacular of the Stalin-era 'Seven Sister' skyscrapers, or 'Stalinskie' that puncture Moscow's otherwise rather low-slung skyline.
Steven, Serg and Marilla at entrance to Karetny Dvor, Moscow
We entered a courtyard where Steven promised we'd eat the best shaslik in Moscow. This we certainly did, along with other fantastic Georgian and Azeri dishes, all washed down with vodka and emerald-green tarragon-flavored soda -I'll admit a new one for me, as was the walnut-stuffed rolled eggplant.

The 'Holy Grail' (brand) of tarragon sodas 'discovered' at Karetny Dvor.

Mikhail Bulgakov's final resting place among the greats of Russian literature, science and history at Novodivichy Convent, Moscow.

Sergei Zaremba: inexorably drawn to Red Square (is there a transmitter hidden in Lenin's Tomb?). I should post more about our Russian trip.

1998 -the first trip, with a konked-out Sergei

flashback: that Tarzan Swimming pool at the Lafayette Hotel, San Diego that appeared in the previous Busybuddy. Looks inviting -as is the poolside cocktail service -certainly more so than the inhospitable treatment we received at the hotel's Red Fox Lounge.

While in California, we exited into the total nowhere of the Central Valley along I-5 on our way from Pioneertown to Monterey, and began cutting across to the coast towards Paso Robles on the small two-lane State Route 41, when in the middle of nowhere we sped past something called the 'James Dean Intersection'. It gave us a creepy feeling. Strange bothering to name an intersection (the only one for miles) out here in the middle of all this sun-withered emptiness. Of course it was the desolate stretch of blacktop where the young rebel (he was only 24) met his death in an automobile accident on September 30, 1955.

After a bizarre (and totally enjoyable) performance at The Alternative Cafe (http://www.thealternativecafe.com/index.php), an art gallery/cafe in Monterey (well, Seaside, really) we stopped in misty Castroville, 'The Artichoke Capital Of The World', for, yes, french-fried artichoke hearts at The Giant Artichoke (11261 Merritt St). I could have sworn that food was served out of windows cut into a free-standing giant artichoke. That's what the passing of time can do to your memory. But the fried artichoke hearts were as good as I recall they were when I first had them in 1980. And they went really well with the 'split' of Sutter Home pinot grigio ($2.50) I managed to chill in their ice-filled display of soft-drinks while I was waiting for my food.

Speaking of beguiling (and increasingly closing) windows into the past, later that day on the way to San Francisco, we made a quick pit-stop in San Juan Bautista, CA, which served as a location for the wind -up of Hitchcock's 'Vertigo'. One of my favorite places, I still can't believe this sleepy, historic village hasn't yet been destroyed with cutesy shoppes and over-developement. I better keep my mouth shut. Paramount's F/X department can be forgiven for taking liberties with the historic integrity of the old mission by adding a full-blown bell-tower to the church in place of it's actual dovecote-like campanile, otherwise bad-girl Kim Novak wouldn't have had anything to fall to her death from. Perhaps, the church originally did have a bell-tower that was destroyed in an earthquake or something. The first time I visited San Juan in 1980, the parish was holding a rodeo, as I supposed it must have been doing since Spanish times. The 'bleachers' for the spectators were set up on the gentle slope of the San Andres Fault which drops off right beyond the edge of the old mission's churchyard.

A Capital City

After an even more rainy time than usual in San Francisco, we got a chance to finally see Sacramento, thanks to Keith's Cousin Sally Freelander and family who were kind enough to put us up (and put up with us) as well as show us around town. Quite frankly, we usually just pass California's capital city by on our way to the Great Northwest. Among the sights of interest (to us at least) was the magnificent state capitol, Sutter's Fort (John Sutter also owned the mill where the California Gold Rush was ignited in 1848), the somewhat gussied-up historic Riverfront District, and the frame house where would be Gerald Ford assassin (really, trying to assassinate Gerald Ford?!) and Charlie Manson acolyte Lynette 'Squeaky' Fromme (my personal favorite too, Charlie) hid out while in town.

Good Bye west coast: Mount Rainier from flight DL1542, SEA -JFK, 07/03/11

So long for now. Right now I've got to celebrate the opening of homely old Greenpoint's first tattoo parlor.

coming soon, part II: 'Sycamore... Next Stop Sycamore...'

-Peter Zaremba

Expanding Our Horizons

2011-06-27T09:37:00.000-07:00

Pioneertown, California

Lately, a consistent theme of mine has been that we Fleshtones must expand our horizons, at least as far as places to perform. But I didn't know what our American agent Roggie Baer (http://www.rajiworld.com/) was even talking about when she told us she had snagged us an almost last-minute date for our current west coast swing in some place called Pioneertown, California. Little did I know exactly how much our horizons would be expanded, but before I get into that we'll have to back track a bit. Don't worry, not into the long past, just the day before -June 24, 2011. Bill Milhizer (as you know by now, The Fleshtones drummer) and I had spent the night at the cozy Santa Monica bungalow of Miles Barken, one of the well-intentioned people who have tried their hand (and patience) managing The Fleshtones. Amazingly, we are still good friends, and he is as generous and good-spirited as always. We were about to depart for San Diego and were sadly contemplating the thought that we would be unable to book a hotel in Tijuana, as has been our habit for years whenever we played that southern California city. The security situation south of the border has finally caught up to what Tijuana's ominous (and rather unmerited) reputation had always been. Besides, neither Ken nor I had our passports, the need for which is a recent regulation that has further put a damper on casual visits to Tijuana from the states. We were booked to play Bar Pink, which brought us into a part of San Diego we had, up till now, totally over looked (actually, we had overlooked all of San Diego since in the past we would spend all of our free time across the border in Tijuana). As we drove up El Cajon Blvd, we were greeted into the pleasantly hip (without being overbearing) North Park /University Heights neighborhood by the large deco-ish letters 'Boulevard' in the median, a relic harkening from the Golden State's days of promise. We pulled up in front of the somewhat out-of-place (in Spanish colonial mission-mad southern California), stately brick façade of The Lafayette Hotel (http://www.lafayettehotelsd.com/). Complete with a white columned portico, it looked much like the mansion pictured in the old opening title of David O. Selznick productions. The 71 room hotel had originally opened as the Imig Manor Resort in 1946. Its first registered guest was Bob Hope, and other Hollywood personalities like Betty Grable and Lana Turner would stay here on forays to the race track and other gambling establishments south of the border. Now the property is undergoing a non-invasive updating of furnishings and appointments. I couldn't believe our luck, our room, which had a John Lennon quote from one of my favorite Beatles songs (appropriately 'I'm Only Sleeping'), emblazoned with large letters across the wall, overlooked the large, two-foot short of Olympic-Sized swimming pool. Surrounded by two tiers of balconied rooms, the so-called 'Tarzan' swimming pool was designed by Johnny Weissmuller and is the center of a pleasantly low-keyed scene (and cocktails) during sunny hours. So, there were consolations to not being in Tijuana.

memorabilia, Lafayette Hotel lobby

Due to the terminally congested highways of the Los Angeles -San Diego corridor, we arrived too late to take advantage of the luncheon prices (liver & onions: $7.95) at the hotels venerable Red Fox Lounge, so walked a few blocks to the Bahia #1 Mexican Restaurant (1985 El Cajon Blvd, 619 542-0540). Despite its totally generic American strip-mall exterior, inside Bahia was a thoroughly Mexican luncheonette, right down to the large ceramic serving bowls of condiments and salsas, Norteño music on the radio and smiling girl behind the counter. Streng and Fox ordered lobster enchiladas and fish tacos. My substantial 'machaca & huevos' burrito came to $4.09 including tax. It was stuffed with delicious dried shredded beef and egg, and not a grain of the rice that is so often used to bulk out burritos back east -a shameless practice that would have hombres reaching for their 6-guns in the burrito's rough and ready home state of Sonora. I was so enthralled by my burrito that it wasn't until late that evening when we were leaving for the club, that I realized I had walked out of the restaurant without my jacket. I dashed back, and as soon as I appeared at the restaurant's door, the young counter girl smiled, disappeared into a back room, and re-appeared with my jacket.
Comfortably occupying a classic cocktail lounge, the Bar Pink (http://www.barpink.com/) turned out to be a great option for a place to perform, and I'd say, see music, in San Diego. Aero-touring on shoestring budget precludes us lugging along our own equipment like my Farfisa, and the Creepy Creeps responded with not one, but two vintage organs. The crowd is fun and the drink prices are conducive to having a good time ($2 cans of Tecate, that sure beats the $2 cans of Milwaukee's Finest that I so willingly swill). Even the 'monitors' were good, which is a real voice saver when performing night after night. The Fleshtones shall return!

A Rude Shock
Returning from The Bar Pink by !:30AM, we realized we had time to drop into the Red Fox for a nightcap before its posted 2 o'clock closing. We were most anxious to check out the hospitality as The Fox is claimed to boast a bar, panelling and other interior details from an 16th century English pub. The story is that screen star Marion Davies had it dismantled and shipped over to California to tone up her beach house. Somehow, it made it to the Imig Resort after her star had faded. Even though an employee hustled us in just as she was closing the door, the barmaid flatly refused us service. "Last call is 1:30" she unsympathetically intoned. "But it says you close at two!" I protested. "Do I need to show you a clock?" she testily replied as she turned to rummaged through the cluttered bar-back for a watch. This was totally uncalled for. "Don't bother -you've already said no" I quickly retorted. She was equally not impressed with my threat to give them a bad review. Quite honestly, I can't offer much of an opinion one way or the other regarding The Red Fox.

06/25/11 Into The High Desert
The next morning, after a bracing plunge into the 'Tarzan' Pool, we headed up to the high desert country, blessed with incredibly clear skies, by way of the thankfully less traffic-choked inland highways towards Palm Springs. After a eastward stretch of I-10, we cut off the 29 Palms Highway in Morongo Springs, climbing into what seemed to be a blasted wilderness of sand and mountains composed of colossal heaps of those bizarrely-eroded boulders oddly familiar to anyone who spent a childhood watching the grade-C westerns and other ancient black and white movie 'serials' that had been economically recycled to TV.
After a rise in the road in a joshua tree-studded landscape, we came to a sign announcing our arrival in Pioneertown. It is not on the way to anyplace else. Soon the low, rambling adobe and cement block compound of Pappy & Harriet's Pioneertown Palace (http://pappyandharriets.com) came into view.

The cars and 'choppers' clustered around The Palace signaled that it was popular with the lunch crowd, a promising sign that left me wondering where they all came from. Talk about convenient accommodations, we'd be staying at the PioneerTown Motel (kitchenettes, no TV, 17 horse corrals, rooms from $70; www.pioneertown-motel.com), a long, low example of old west log-cabin rusticity that straggled right behind the dusty parking lot of Pappy and Harriet's. There wasn't anywhere else to stay for miles around. In fact, Pioneertown in actually a movie set, constructed for the filming of 'westerns'. I couldn't wait to brag about being here to that ultimate devotee of that American cinematic form, my Serbian pal Marko Petrovic. One day, Marko shall inspire me write my own wildly successful trilogy of almost-Scandinavian thrillers, the first title of course will be 'The Boy With The Warren Oates Tattoo' (he actually does have Oates' mug tattooed on his belly). The broad dusty main 'street' of Pioneer Town, however was never the haunt of his heros like John Ford or Howard Hawks, but Jock Mahoney was here -often. Starting in the mid 1940's, Hollywood's poverty row producers had been mightily busy here cranking out stuff like Cisco Kid and Gene Autry serials, many of which I had indeed sat through, glazed-eyed, as a child.
Quite honestly, I was having a little trouble 'getting' the place. We were, by definition, in the middle of nowhere. It was too hot for any sane person to attempt to take a walk in the blazing sun to explore. A swimming pool, like they have at The 29 Palms Inn, would have been nice. The word 'desiccated', as in 'a desiccated body of an unfortunate hiker was discovered…' kept popping into my head. Being resourceful, Bill and I turned the situation to our advantage, washing out as much of our sweaty laundry as we could after our nap.Shirts dried almost before our eyes in the bone dry air. So did we. After lunch at Pappy and Harriet's (I had what I thought was the best buy -a massive chili dog covered with congealed cheese served with rice and pinto beans for $6.95 -the instantly indigestible choice was my own doing, the fare at Pappy's proved to be very good) we all exercised our only reasonable option -a midday nap.
Back at Pappy's the dinner crowd seemed to meld with those arriving for the evening's music. It seems most folks arrive in time to dine before the show, Pappy's is extremely popular for steaks, chicken, ribs, burgers and even salmon, cooked damn close to perfection over an immense, smokey mesquite-fired barbecue pit out back.
Besides generously providing us with a 'back-line' The 4019s opened with a nice set of 'road house' tunes like 'Route 66' that seemed so appropriate for the time and place. It certainly put me in the mood. By the time we were playing, it seemed as if by magic a houseful of enthusiastic patrons were dancing before us. At least that's the way it looked from the stage. Bikers with gray ponytails, local families, tourists, artsy refugees from the LA sprawl and fans from as far away as Phoenix Arizona and Melbourne Australia all had a wonderful night in the high desert. "We never have to get rough with anyone here" said the husky dudes that serve as house security. Lingering at the bar after the show, it seemed a shame to let such an evening slip away, but as we stumbled across the parking lot's sands back to our rooms we couldn't help but gaze upwards. Miles from the lights of any big city, the Milky Way glowed in a broad, nebulous swath across the clear, night sky above our heads.

Main Street, Pioneertown

The next morning, I took advantage of the relatively merciful temperature to check out the old movie set 'town'. Besides a few scurrying lizards, I was the only person striding down a dusty street that had been the appointed site of many a celluloid showdown. Sadly, Pioneertown Bowl, one of California's oldest alleys, wasn't open yet. Having, I was told, only two manually operated lanes, its first bowler had been the 'King Of Cowboys' himself, Roy Rodgers. In my mind I hear Roy and Dale as if it were yesterday, singing at the end of each episode of their TV show - "Happy Trails To You -until we meet again...".
Who needs a swimming pool anyway?

-Peter Zaremba

I'd like to add more pix with this post when I get the chance, right now we've got to drive to Monteray... PZ

here's where The Fleshtones will be appearing on the rest of this week's west coast swing:
06/27 Alternative Cafe (http://www.thealternativecafe.com/)-Seaside (Monteray), CA
06/28 Bottom Of The Hill (http://www.bottomofthehill.com/)-San Francisco, CA
06/29 The Blue Lamp (http://bluelamp.com/rocks/?cat=1) -Sacramento, CA
07/01 Dante's (http://www.danteslive.com/contact.html)-Portland, OR
07/02 El Corazon (http://www.elcorazonseattle.com/)-Seattle, WA
for all of you who having been asking when we will be coming out this way, well, here we come.

An Auspicious Beginning...

2011-06-20T20:28:00.000-07:00

The Fleshtones in Europe (second leg) May 25 -June 12, 2011

RTB -in natural surroundings.

May 25th: The Fleshtones rendezvoused at the Rego Park home of Ross The Boss, who obligingly made a cameo appearance with his latest guitar acquisition. We were there to catch a cab to JFK and a flight back to Europe (Oslo, Norway via Amsterdam) on KLM, which has become my absolute favorite transatlantic carrier (see Zaremblog KLM 6070 JFK -AMS). For the next 18 days we would ping-pong across Norway, Sweden and Finland, dipping down into Portugal for just enough time to headline the Quarteira Rock Festival with the Staggers (Austria) and Los Explosivos (Mexico). The trip would culminate back in Moss, Norway with the 1st House Of Rock Festival.

I've often promised to skip the lengthly missives, and this time I mean it. It's not just that I've been busy (!) since the release of our latest album, Brooklyn Sound Solution featuring Lenny Kaye (CD/LP Yep-2226), but I've been rather discouraged about writing, especially since my laptop's screen went blank. I brought it to my tech guy months ago and he's been dodging me ever since. Still, a lot did happen on this tour, even for The Fleshtones.

The livery cab arrived, and we headed south on Woodhaven Boulevard, a secondary road that is not only once again the most reliable route to the airport now that the Van Wyck Expressway has been rendered all but unusable due to congestion, but has served as the ancestral path to countless summers at Rockaway Beach...

By Popular Demand

2011-03-05T08:08:00.000-08:00

The Jamaica Jazz & Blues Festival 2011, Royal Plantation, Goldeneye, Geejam and The Jolly Boys

There have been several inquiries into the whereabouts of The Busybuddy, including one from colleague Sergio Ortiz (http://www.sergiosfstop.com/), travel writer/photographer and former war correspondent. Taking pictures while people are shooting at you -now that's what I call a real photographer. Anyway, Busybuddy has been busy -despite The Fleshtones current (lengthly!) sabbatical. We finally took a log-delayed family road trip to Florida last summer, and the band headed up to the land of Ken Fox for a few shows including one at 'This Ain't Hollywood' (it sure isn't!) in one of my favorite cities -Hamilton, Ontario. In the fall, the band cut a new album in collaboration with friends Phast Phreddie Patterson and Lenny Kaye. It will be out next week (mid-March) -with lots of shows to follow. I'll have more to say about all that later. Right now, I've always said it's nice to read about a sunny place while we've all shivering through the darkness of winter, and even better to actually go to one. Most recently...

Jamaica -And All That Jazz: 01/28/11 -02/02/11

...it was my good fortune to be invited by the Jamaica Tourist Board to attend the 15th Jamaica Jazz & Blues Festival (www.jamaicajazz&blues.com). Musical events like this are held all across the Caribbean, but Jamaica's festival is one of the biggest and the best, attracting up to 35,000 fans. Of course, Jamaica is a great place to enjoy music, and I'd guess even a better place to play. As each successive performer seemed to declare, Jamaicans make a great audience (but as Diana Ross unhappily found out a few Jazz Festivals ago, also a very discerning one). I had hoped to see performers like Jamaican jazz great Monty Alexander, but he wasn't appearing this year. In reality these festivals lean more to popular music, with a stiffening of R&B. This year's headliner's were: Thursday -Alison Hinds, Brenda Russell, Diana King and Ron Isley; Friday -Tavares, Regina Belle and Maroon 5; and Saturday -Laura Izabor, Natalie Cole and Air Supply.
Diverse line-ups like these remind me of working the Schaefer Music Festival in Central Park in the very early '70s. Dig up a tape of the TV special 'Good Vibrations From Central Park (1971) starring the Beach Boys, Carly Simon and The Ike & Tina Turner Revue, and you might be able to catch a glimpse of a long-haired Zaremba painting the stage in the opening credits.
Of the R&B artists appearing, I most regretted missing Ron Isley -whom I credit (together with his brothers and The Contours) with personally provoking my Dad to swear off listening to the 'Hit Parade' -especially while driving the car -forever. Of course my sister and I were there to pick up the torch, right through into The British Invasion -which for Dad might have been even worst. Anyway, because of the incessant snow-related flight disruptions, I was forced to spend the night Isley was performing in a Florida airport hotel -in other words, nowhere.
I did make it to Jamaica in time for Friday night's show. Having outgrown a more pastoral setting at Cinnamon Hill's golf course (Cinnamon Hill was also home to Johnny Cash and June Carter), the festival moved last year to Greenfield Multi-Purpose, a gargantuan stadium built for the opening ceremonies of the Cricket World Cup in 2007 and used for little since. Without a doubt the stadium features excellent facilities and production values, but is stranded in the rural parish of Trelawny. That's a good 2 1/2 hours over the mountains from Kingston, but strategically sited between the island's north coast all-important tourist centers. Despite this, and what you would think to be a rather hefty ticket-price for a relatively poor island (general admission, Thurs -Sat: US$ 250), the festival audience is overwhelmingly Jamaican, a telling sign of Jamaica's devotion to music -and a good party. That's a lot better than playing to a lot of tourists, and gives the festival its unique energy and soul.

peanut vendor -Jamaica Jazz & Blues Festival

'General admission' equaled standing room on the enormous cricket 'pitch', so 'higglers' were doing brisk business in folding chairs. Jamaica is one country where vendors will approach you with things you might actually want. Unfortunately, umbrellas were to be a hot item this year as well. Since it was not possible to approach the stage without a premium ticket, a lot of the action gravitated to the private hospitality 'tents' -some featuring buffets and open bars, that ringed the field. A hot spot was the Jamaica Tourist Board 'tent'. This being Trelawny, the very open bar was (for once) well-stocked with Gold Label Rum. It's vaguely whiskey-like and inexpensive. Versatile too -lacking ginger ale, it seemed to mix well with 'Sprite' and a dash of Angostura Bitters. I didn't think of asking for it with 'Ting', which would have been too 'heavy' for the light-bodied rum anyway.

Super-smooze -the JTB hospitality 'tent'.

Instead of the usual back-stage scene, the festival 'press' was headquartered in a 'media center' in the grandstands. This was some distance from the stage and with the overcast weather, I expected clouds to pass between us and the performers. Still the centre was a lively scene, with acts dropping to meet the press and lots of energy courtesy of 'drop-ins' from the Kingston entertainment world. I spent some time hanging around trying to get a word in with Walter Elmore, the festival's mercurial director. One of the many people I did chat with was Wayne McGregor of 'Black Zebra' (http://www.myspace.com/blackzebramusic) a Kingston-based rock band that he describes as a "cross between Led Zeppelin and Steel Pulse". That's right, rock & roll -in Kingston. This festival was going to be an education.

Tavares hold forth in the 'media centre'.

Take Tavares. I'll admit I wasn't much of a fan back in the day, but their performance was exhilarating. Despite the disco legacy, Tavares is basically a soulful vocal group at heart, working out to a insistent beat -matching white suits and all. They delivered a string of hits -their own and others, like 'Heaven Must Be Missing An Angel' with an edge the slick original recordings never seemed to have for me. Later, in the Media Centre, the group was still bubbling with boundless enthusiasm, praising Jamaican audiences and breaking into song 'a cappella' at the drop of a hat.
In between acts on the main stage, attention shifted to the Heineken 'small' Stage. The stage was easily approached and the talent consistently entertaining -like Tina Moore & Family, who laid down a soulful 'retrofitted' version of Donna Summer's 'I Feel Love', featuring real horns and drums in lieu of electronics. The Love Delegation or 'horns period' Fleshtones would have been inspired.

The night wound up with the 'Sting'-like vocal delivery of lead singer Adam Levine of platinum-selling Maroon 5. What surprised me was not only did the crowd know who they were, they knew the words to all their songs. It was after 5AM before we got back to the hotel.

Hilton Rose Hall

Visiting journalists, as well as a lot of the talent, were put up at the 488-room Hilton Rose Hall (www.hilton.com/RoseHall). With twin 7-story wings, newly renovated in the sleek, contemporary 'new Hilton' style -beige with lots of polished, dark wood details, this former Wyndham resort recently underwent an identity switch with the Hilton Kingston (which itself became a Wyndham).
Although Hilton is the quintessential 'international' hotel brand, the property makes a good effort at providing local flavor. I wasn't at the hotel for dinner, but Jamaican specialties like salt-fish and ackee, brown stew fish, steamed vegetables, and dumplings, were available at breakfast and lunch. The staff at the beach grill went out of their way to rustle up (and chop open) 'water coconuts' for us. Bartenders were friendly and forthcoming, especially at the breezy terrace bar, where they mixed up a good 'dark & stormy'. From my informal 'overheard conversation' survey, I'd reckon the guests were mostly North American -the twangy accents of the US heartland predominating, reinforced with a smattering of off-balance Brits, one of whom was left flabbergasted at the lack of English beer at the bar. He made do with Red Stripe. The hotel also boasts the Caribbean's largest water park complete with a wonderful slide spanned by a suspension foot-bridge and an long, 'lazy river' circulating through ultra-tropical gardens. Pretty good, especially for families with children.

Saturday evening had the festival audience patiently waiting out a lengthly rain delay. It was the uplifting Tarrus Riley, a late addition to the line-up, who set the evening on the right course. The reggae star topping off his cloud-chasing performance with a rendition of his monumental hit 'She's Royal'. Tarrus did the advance work for the men in the audience and if women in the crowd haven't already melted, they now swooned into their date's waiting arms.

She's Royal! Tarrus Riley at JJ&BF 2011

Along with Regina Belle, Natalie Cole was the 'jazziest' of the scheduled performers. She delivered a cool and sophisticated set, the highlight of which was 'Unforgettable', her somewhat disturbing posthumous duet with her dad Nat 'King' Cole, who appeared on a huge video screen.
Air Supply are regulars on the Caribbean 'Jazz Fest' circuit. Air Supply? I had seen them play to an appreciative audience in Aruba, but nothing prepared me for the Jamaican reaction to the Australian soft-rock duo. It was a veritable sing-along from the first note. The mega-hits came flowing out - 'All Out Of Love', 'Every Woman In The World' -the soundtrack to the love-lives of all present and departed. Graham Russell and Russell Hitchcock soaked up the love, heading off stage to work the crowd in the premium priced seats, hugging and singing to the fans, many of whom were moved to joyous tears. Even our 'keeper', the normally unflappable Lyndon Taylor of Ruder-Finn PR, burst into a chorus of 'Making Love -Out Of Nothing At All' in the JTB tent. Yet another reminder -Jamaicans don't only listen to reggae.

Lyndon does Air Supply in the JTB Hospitality 'tent'.

Next year, Shirley Bassey is slated to headline the festival. That's something I wouldn't want to miss. Imagine teaming her up with Tom Jones to tear up the JJ&B stage? From 'Burning Hell' to Thunderball' now, that would be a blast.

An Extraordinary Dinner

Zaremba discovers what he's been missing... photo: Dwiaitt Watson

After the festival, I was invited to check out Sandals Royal Plantation (www.sandals.com), a small luxury property that the Jamaica-based hotel group acquired in 2000. Since then, the chain has set about making the Royal Plantation the jewel in its crown of resorts. The hotel perches, Riviera-like, on a rocky promontory above twin beaches just east of Ocho Rios in the parish of St. Ann. Besides being the location of Ocho Rios, St. Ann has given birth to two of Jamaica's most famous sons - Marcus Garvey and Bob Marley.

All 74 rooms are suites, and all suites are 'oceanfront'. Live peacocks, and butlers who have your clothes unpacked before you finish your welcome drink, greet you at the stately 'Gone With The Wind' entrance. That is, the butler unpacks your clothes, the peacocks just strut about preening themselves and emitting that eerie child-like cry of theirs. Behind the columns, on the second floor there's a magnificent drawing room done up in full-blown regency decor. I'd later find out what the salon was used for. Enveloped by lush- tropical foliage, I have never seen a more lovely pair of tennis courts in my life. Too bad I don't play -another result of my confused youth -imagine growing up in Flushing and avoiding learning how to play tennis. Too busy wearing out Yardbirds records.
The hotel takes great pride in fulfilling guest's every request. I've always have trouble figuring out what to do with a butler, after all I've only just recently figured out how to pick up after myself. Now my son Sergei -he's 14 - he could use a butler -other than me and his Mom, that is. Apparently, guests adapt to the butler thing quite well. Once a butler buried an extra-long extension chord under the sand so a guest could watch a TV program he didn't want to miss at the beach.
When I arrived, most of the guests were having lunch, while enjoying the sounds of a 'mento' trio called 'The Happy Smilers'. Then it was a few steps to the beach, where the guests looked super-relaxed and well-tended, the appropriate drinks reaching their hands, barely needing to be requested. It reminded me of an acquaintance of mine who once had the honor of waiting on Frank Sinatra at some event. He sincerely told Sinatra that he admired his work. Sinatra: "Whiskey on the rocks. Doubles. Keep 'em coming. Don't make me ask..."

That night I was invited to dinner with Lindsey Issacs, Sandals Regional PR Director, and Shupatrik Guha, hotel manager, in that grand drawing room I mentioned. Now reserved for special occasions like visits of Prime Ministers or members of The Fleshtones, it had once been the hotel's main dining room, seeing the likes of Sir Winston Churchill as well as Ian Fleming and Noel Coward, both of whom lived down the road. We started with osetra caviar, served from an iced silver server. I've got to admit I've always found caviar too 'sophisticated' (okay, fishy) for my tastes. Sprinkled on a nice cracker, however, with a dab of sour cream and some finely chopped shallot, and I was starting to get an idea of what all the fuss was about. Better not get too used to it.
Since champagne goes with everything, champagne, Vevue Cliquot, was served as an aperitif (again, to be honest I'm not too choosy when it comes to the bubbly, perhaps a result of toasting the first moon landing in 1969 with Andre 'champagne'). This was a night for grand flourishes, so the champagne was to be opened via 'sabrage' -that is by lopping off the stopper with a sword. I instinctively drew back. I had once attended a party where our very French host, complete with legionnaire's kepi, misjudged his stroke, exploding the bottle and showering us with glass shards. He was left holding the label -and wet. Ces't manifique -yes, but what a waste of champagne. This night, the bottleneck was expertly whacked off with a special ceremonial sword made just for this purpose. At this point I should add that the Royal Plantation operates the Caribbean's only champagne and caviar bar. The meal proper proceeded with an entré of jerk chicken wrap with greens, then Jamaican 'pepperpot' soup with calaloo, followed by curried lobster tail in its shell and black angus steak tournedos with asparagus. Perhaps there was some dark rum deglazing/reduction involved. After all that, I could barely remember what dessert was.
The next morning GM Peter Frazer graciously found time to chat with me about the hotel, the Jazz & Blues Festival and rock & roll before I headed eastward along Jamaica's north coast.

Birthplace of Bond

'Bond' meets Fleming -Goldeneye.

Not far east along the coast is Oracabessa. The Spanish didn't bequeath much to Jamaica save the Maroons, the ancient 'Flat-Bridge' (still a notorious choke-point for traffic between the island's north and south coasts) and some place-names. Oracabessa is the English corruption of the original Spanish name 'Ora Cabeza' -or 'golden head' because of the area's beautiful late-afternoon light. From this name was derived 'Goldeneye' (www.goldeneye.com), the beloved, tropical retreat of Ian Fleming -creator of James Bond. It's now a high-end resort. Over the years, notable guests have added to the profusion of the lush, jungle-y property, by planting trees, beginning with Sir Anthony Eden, the British Prime Minister who was invited by Fleming (who was begged by HM Government to invite?) to recover at Goldeneye after suffering what amounted to a nervous breakdown in the wake of the Suez Crisis of 1956. I'm not sure if Hillary Clinton planted anything after she recovered here from her bruising presidential primary bid -people only asked me about Johnny Depp's tree.

Goldeneye recently re-opened after a major expansion -but any expansion would be considered major for a resort that had consisted of only 5 villa/compounds. The best things have been wisely left rather unchanged. You're still offered a frosty 'Goldeneye', the resort's rum-based welcome cocktail, upon arrival. I still like the Gazebo Bar, which rambles along a rocky ledge overlooking the narrow canal that guests used to have to swim across to reach the beach on Low Cay. The channel is now spanned by a suspension foot-bridge -a nifty thing really and a necessary bow to progress -you can't have all those new guests getting wet every time they want to dine at the Gazebo or go to 'reception'. The beach is now lined with a handful of new cottages, that fit into their settings so naturally that they appear to have been there all the while. Despite their down-home West Indian appearance, they are all quite luxurious and stylishly -if understatedly, appointed. Fleming's own villa has been spiffed up a bit, but remains marvelously 'open' and simple, the way the author designed it. The desk at which he wrote all of his Bond stories is still in the master bedroom, tucked into a windowless corner, it is said, so he would not be distracted by the vivid colors of the flowers and Caribbean Sea outside.

A National Brouhaha

This being Jamaica, there was a national brouhaha over the re-naming of near-by Boscobel Aerodrome to 'Ian Fleming International Airport' -providing a pleasant diversion from the country's problems. Was this not another manifestation of a national inferiority complex? Wouldn't it be a sign of national pride and maturity to name it after a Jamaican? The name did have a bit of a craven ring to it. It was a hot topic on talk radio as I continued my drive to Port Antonio. One caller suggested that since this re-naming was meant to satisfy tourism interests (that is the interests that generate the largest share of Jamaica's economy by far), why not just name it after Fleming's creation -James Bond. After all, everyone knows who James Bond is. Good point, but I don't know about naming something serious like an airport after a fictitious character. We do have our own precedent with New York State's Rip Van Winkle Bridge, which I like, maybe more liking renaming LAX for Bugs Bunny or more precisely, Newark International after Santa Claus -he's not an American, but wait, there really was a Santa Claus. In the end, maybe it would be a sign of even further national self-confidence to just leave it at 'Fleming International'. Not that anyone ever said he was a nice guy, but he did love Jamaica and chose to do most of his work there. The French would honor a writer or artist that way -and they're pretty self-confident. Anyway, I'll always call it Boscobel Aerodrome -just like I still say 'Tri-Borough Bridge'.

Port Antonio, Geejam and The Jolly Boys

My final destination in Jamaica was Port Antonio in the north-eastern parish of Portland, to interview British hip-hop pioneer Jon Baker, creator of Geejam Hotel and Recording Studio (www.geejam.com) for Tape Op Magazine, as well as cover the hotel's Bushbar for Caribbean Travel & Life.
According to the tourism 'line', Port Antonio was 'discovered' by actor Errol Flynn, who fell in love with the sleepy town and it's lovely surroundings. Apparently, the locals fell in love with the gregarious Flynn as well. It became a hideaway for Hollywood types and International society figures like the Aga Khan. Then the area dozed off into a long beauty-sleep, insulated from the tumults of the rest of the island by the appallingly bad roads. All of this is true and as it is, 'PA' is a link to an earlier Jamaica of the jet-set era -and before. While in 'P.A.' I also hoped to catch veteran mento band, and Port Antonio locals, The Jolly Boys. After all, the first time I visited 'Portie' hoping to catch a glimpse of Errol's widow, actress Patrice Wymore (Ocean's 11 -the original), I wound up having dinner with her at Geejam. Port Antonio is like that.
To say 'hotel' might give the wrong impression, this exclusive 'boutique-of-a-boutique' property only has three high-tech cottages, a suite and a 3 bedroom villa, which was originally used as the recording studio, nestled on a lush, wooded hillside over looking the Caribbean Sea. No statues or fountains, just towering, vine draped pimento and cottonwood trees. Now the recording studio is in its own building, complete with roof-top sun-deck and a sound room with picture window views of the Caribbean -a nice place to make records. Amy Winehouse worked there recently. When I walked into the studio, The Jolly Boys just happened to be laying down a version of one of my favorite old mento tunes -'Sly Mongoose'. Now lead singer, 72 year old Albert Minott, was originally the fire-dancer for the group back in the days when Errol Flynn changed the group's name from 'The Navy Island Swamp Boys', dubbing them 'The Jolly Boys'.

Like the 'rake and scrape', 'fungi' and 'string band' music of other English West Indian islands, 'mento' developed along with calypso, employing guitar, banjo and a 'sitting bass' or 'rhumba box' -much like a fender amp-sized 'kalimba' that the player sits upon. The music has a 'light' feel that makes it extremely fun to listen and dance to. The advent of ska and reggae, however, relegated mento to the lobbies and pool-side parties of the resorts -for decades. Realizing that the group would not be around forever, along with co-producer/engineer Dale 'Dizzle' Virgo (who also drummed on the record) Baker recorded a new album, 'Great Expectation' with The Jollys at Geejam and sent them off on tour to Britain and Europe. The record avoided the old mento standards, instead featuring a surprising selection of covers familiar to anyone who spent a lot of time in nightclubs in the early '80s. There's even a couple of Iggy Pop tunes and a version of Winehouse's 'Rehab' -a pretty smart move. Even I admit they couldn't just keep singing 'Dandy Shady' forever.

Dale 'Dizzle' Virgo records The Jolly Boys

Down time between interviews with Jon and bartender Jason Brown gave me a chance to met Jon's business partner -Hong Kong musicman and fellow British expat Steven Beaver. Steven was kind enough to invite me along on his swims at dusk. The coast around Port Antonio is notched with a series of beautiful sheltered coves, and now that the resort/studio has opened it's own private beach on gin-clear Mack Bay, the situation at Geejam is pretty near perfect.

Steven was also keen to lay some Stephen James (www.stephenjamesluxuryorganics.com) natural food products on me that he brought from Hong Kong. The all-organic, non-dairy 'pizza' bar did keep me alive on my flight back to JFK. I also tried the 'volcanic' Pili nuts from the Philippines -five times more vitamin E than almonds, and quite tasty. I'm not sure if munching them along with the house 'Blue Geejam' cocktails negated their beneficial properties. According to Steve, the Stephen James 'organic smart bars' are actually made in Macau. Since my childhood obsession with fireworks, I've been fascinated with Macau. Besides avoiding the dubious distinction of a 'Made In China' label, it occurred to me that producing the bars in Macau made sense given that territory's long tradition of preparing dried foods -like the delicious, jerky-like 'meat roll-ups' I sampled on my visit to Macau a few years ago.

Jon Baker -plotting a course for the future.

The next morning I hitched a ride back to Kingston with Jon in the smallest Cessna 4-seater I have ever seen, none the less flown in. This would turn a two-hour plus drive over the 7,000 foot high Blue Mountains into a 20-minute hop. In the aeronautical equivalent of a Fiat 500, the up-drafts bumped us over the mountainous 'spine' of the island. Then, spread across a broad plain, Kingston -the big city, came into view. We touched down in a small aerodrome in an industrial zone near the harbor, then a taxi took me across town and down the same Palisadoes Causeway along the sea that as a boy I saw James Bond traveling upon after his arrival in Jamaica on his very first international screen assignment. That was in 'Dr. No', a half a century ago in the final years of Jamaica as a British colony. Now the airport is named for Michael Manley, fourth Prime Minister of an independent Jamaica. I was headed in the other direction -and a Jet Blue flight back to New York.
-Peter Zaremba

Dr. No -Bond rumbles upon arrival in Jamaica, location: Palisadoes

(http://www.visitjamaica.com/)

next: The Jolly Boys go to New York and The Fleshtones leave it -as part of the Brooklyn Sound Solution.

Homeland Insecurity & The Fleshtones European Summer mini-Festival Of Fun

2010-08-07T15:40:00.000-07:00

Rome...

Homeland Insecurity
(07/06/10)
Delta flight 246 (JFK to Rome Fiumicino) began with the usual tedium -several hundred passengers shuffling into the cramped confines of a jet. Okay, this one is going to be trouble, I thought. I'm as accepting as they come, but this guy was, as the less diversity-conscious would say, a 'towel-head' -there was literally a towel -a terry-cloth hand-towel at that, draped over his head -a la -alright, I've got to say it -Osama bin Ladin. Talking to himself, special assistance was needed from the increasingly exasperated stewardess to corral him into (and keep him in) his seat. From then on he was particularly uncooperative -not fastening his seat-belt, repeatedly ignoring the instructions to turn off electronic devices, etc. The stewardess called several times for male flight attendants to deal with the passenger, who finally seemed to settle in. We were probably long passed Nova Scotia when diner was served -one of my favorite distractions from the boredom of a long flight (in-flight service, see: www.Zaremblog/blogspot.com).

It must have been about 4 hours into our 7 and 1/2 hour flight from JFK to Rome when the pilot made an announcement: due to 'navigational issues' we were returning to the nearest airport with Delta facilities -Boston. This he said, was 'less' an hour away and added that these 'navigational' difficulties in no way impaired our aircraft's ability to operate safely. We just, according to the pilot's increasingly convoluted explanations, couldn't enter 'European airspace' without resolving the issue. If we had 'navigational issues' why not land at the nearest airport, which would at that point seem to be in Newfoundland, or more likely Greenland. At least that would be interesting. What must have been a half hour later, the pilot said we'd be landing in Boston -in a little over an hour. We finally landed in Boston over an hour and a half from then (no less than Streng himself timed it), so we must have been over two hours out from Boston at the time of the first announcement. We sat on the runway at Logan. Our biggest fear was that we'd sit there for the rest of the night, then be held in the terminal until a flight later the next day. If we were experiencing navigational problems, they must have been of an usual nature -we could clearly see security officers approaching the jet. I knew it -a state trooper was led on board to question the unruly passenger with the towel over his head. After a brief interview, which I must assume was unsatisfactory, he was led away. We sat. Then his carry-on luggage was located and removed from the plane. We sat. We were told we were being held while all of the trash was removed from all of the jet's washrooms to be examined. The plane was searched. We sat. Eventually, our friend with the hand towel on his head re-appeared, smiling. The suspect turned out to be nothing more dangerous than a spaced-out member of a touring reggae band. Our 'navigational' difficulties thus cleared up, the pilot introduced the band (some mutation of 'The Bad Brains') to begrudging applause and we were allowed to proceed into the previously mentioned 'European airspace'.

Roman (un)Holiday
(07/07/10)
We got to Rome with our free day gnawed away to a late afternoon/ evening. Our hotel was outside the city's ancient Servian Walls, near the beginning of the Appian Way. We decided to at least walk to the nearest gate into the city. Passing through the walls at the Porte San Giovanni, we were immediately greeted
by the massive bulk of San Giovanni in Laterano, one of the ancient basilicas ordered built by Constantine The Great himself, this one to house the relics of St. John the Baptist. It's now directly under the jurisdiction of The Vatican. We got no more than a tanalizing glimpse of its interior as the guard ever so slowly closed the church's immense bronze doors.

Scala Sacra -encased in protective wood since the 18th century.

We had better luck as we raced across the street to marvel at 'la Scala Sacra' -believed to be the very stairs that Christ ascended to be judged by Pontius Pilate in Jerusalem. Constantine had them dismantled and shipped to Rome at the requests of his Christian wife and his mother-in-law. Now the devout ascend them on their knees. I got to step #2. At the top of the stairs is the barred 'Holy Of Holies', considered the most sacred place in all of Christendom in the Dark Ages. From the Scala Sacra we were drawn on to the Colosseum -which was closed. It's better admired from the outside anyway. In front of the Colosseum, guys dressed as centurions make fools of themselves by calling out to tourists to pose for pictures with them, thereby making a lot more money than I do making a fool of myself. Turn your head slightly and there's Constantine's Arch. Erected in the period of Roman decline, the Emperor pilfered much of its sculpture from earlier monuments. A short road of ancient cobbles leads from here to the entrance of the Forum -the very epicenter of the power that was the Roman Empire. Naturally, it had just closed.

the Colosseum -everybody knows what it looks like...

Mussolini's two bad decisions (okay, two most bad decisions) were entombing a large swath of the forum under the story-thick carpet of concrete of his Via Foro Imperiali (so that mass parades could go from the Colosseum to his favorite balcony for speechifying on the Piazza Venezia). The other, of course, was actually believing that it was necessary for Italy to conquer the world -again. At this point, thanks to Il Duce's foresight we skirted along the forum's edge, stealing glimpses of the Arch Of Titus, the back of the Roman Senate, and the entrance to the Mamartine Prison -the hideously dank dungeon into which Sts. Peter and Paul were cast before execution (and which we were surprised to find 'closed for cleaning' the last time we were in Rome). Nearby, a low shed protects the remains of Julius Caesar's home -where his body was cremated and where Mark Anthony delivered his famous oration in his friend's honor. To this day, admirers leave flowers on the spot.

We scurried (that's too energetic a word, the onset of evening had done little to cool the heat) up the side of the Capitoline Hill, where once more a guard leisurely closed the bronze doors to the courtyard of the Museo di Campidoglio, just in time to deny us a peek at the fragments from the colossal statue of himself that Constantine had erected in front of the Colosseum. Like-wise the 'secret' doorway that leads to the back of that breezy outdoor cafe at the top of the stupendous monument to King Victor Emmanuel I (bet you didn't know that was there!) was chained as well.

"Beware...."

On to the Pantheon, which had just closed, then Piazza Novona (well you can't close that) and the Campo di Fiore as well. It was time for dinner. One of the fascinating things about Rome is that, more than built on top of, it has through the centuries been built into the vestiges of the ancient city. Like the Piazza Novona, who's buildings incorperate the ruins of a Roman racetrack, the Restorante Grotte Del Teatro Di Pompeo, via F. Palasciano, 96 (on the tiny Piazza de Teatro di Pompeo) is constructed into the remains of the ancient Theatre Of Pompey. The Roman Senate was temporally meeting here on March 15, 44 BC, when Julius Caesar was set upon by his assassins as he left the theatre. It's extraordinary to dine steps away from, if not the very spot, where Caesar was stabbed to death by his enemies (and friends) from the Senate over two millennia ago. Also steps away from the mediocre eateries lining the tourist-packed Campo Fiore, here you'll usually find yourself dining (for the most part) in the company of Romans. Eat like they do, and stick to straight-forward Roman specialties like 'Bucatini alla Amatriciana' (spicy tomato ragu with pancetta), grilled fish and the inexpensive (7€) 'Castelli Romani' house white wine, and you'll be more than pleased with your bill as well as your meal.

Bill 'loading into' Rome's Circolo Degli Artisti. We travel light (note the ancient Roman aqueduct at the rear of the venue).

(07/08/10)
The next day we headed over to Circolo Degli Artisti (via Casilina Vecchia 42; www.circolodegliartisiti.it). Also located outside Rome's walls, the Circolo is in the neighborhood of rock journalist Roberto Calabro. Of course we ran into him as he was taking a stroll. He handed us a card announcing his recently published book 'Eighties Colors', which documents the Italian neo-psychedelic scene of the 1980's. We're in it. Sponsored by the re-branded Italian Communist Party, that night's show was sweaty, packed and a successful start to our Fleshtones Summer Mini-Festival of Fun.

a transient visitor: AereoPark 'la Donzelletta'

Retorno a Le Marche

(07/09/10)
Reconati
I've got a lot of nice things to say about this hill town overlooking the Adriatic Sea, but since we didn't go into Reconati this time I won't say it here. The festival was a modest country affair at the quirky AereoPark la Donzelletta, a grassy flying club within sight of the massive complex that houses the shrine to Our Lady Of Loretto.
There were odd old airplanes and an aviatrix who serves as a 'mother' to clutches of goslings. Waddling after her where ever she goes, she eventually teaches them to fly after her 'ultra-light' aircraft. That night's show was modest as well -in attendance. Too bad, the setting was memorable, the night lots of fun and the adjacent 'Osteria la Donzelletta' -where we dined on the excellent dishes of Le Marche like 'tagliatelle al ragu' Marchigiano, 'pappardelle al Cinghiale' and 'chitarrine Carciofi e noci' -was great.

One Of My Least Favorite Ways To Feel
(07/10/10)
45 minutes in a stifling hotel room served as a prelude to an over-night drive back to Rome's Ciampoine Airport to catch our early morning flight to Charleroi, Belgium. Pinned upright in the van, my head repeatedly jerked forward as I struggled to keep awake for fear the driver would nod out on the high-speed 'Autostrada'. Understandably drowsy, he repeatedly slowed the van to a crawl as passing Italian motorists blared their horns in displeasure. It was well past dawn when we arrived at the airport where we joined the first of many disorderly queues for our super no-frills flight on RyanAir -the queue-lovers airline. Eventually were funneled into yet another queue amid the drilling, jack-hammering and high-speed cutting of steel in the construction zone that was our boarding pen. Well, I'll quit complaining because flying RyanAir is a bargain.

From Charleroi Airport it's a short drive (this is Belgium) to Leige, 'capital' of Wallonie, the country's French-speaking half. Funneled into a narrow, strategic valley of the Meuse, this pleasant city has gotten in the way of the Germans more than once. More happily, Liege's name has become attached to various examples of pleasurable eating: cafe leigeois, coupe leigeois and so on. I was a bit disappointed by the treacle-like 'vrai sirop de Leige', which turned out to be truly nothing more than boiled-down fruit juice.

'Le vrai sirop de Liege' not withstanding, we were in town to play the yearly 'Festival Les Ardentes' (www.lesardents.be). Among the dozens of acts performing that day would be Nada Surf (I had been assistant engineer on one of their early recording sessions at Northside's Coyote Studio -before it was obliterated in the hipster tsunami that's overwhelmed that neighborhood) and Heavy Trash (whose Mat Verti-ray operates the studio where we now record with Ivan Julian -small world), a veritable "Brooklyn reunion" as Streng remarked. Various stages, dressing rooms and lounges were partitioned off in a stifling hot (I'm going to over-use that adjective a lot by necessity) hanger that was large enough to accommodate a squadron of Zeppelins. We all received meal tickets for use in the festival cafeteria after another sweaty set. I had my eyes on a well-earned grilled entrecote, served with either 'sauce bearnaise' or 'au poivre vert'. The canteen only had a scrap of steak left, so the cook obligingly compensated me with a massive 'boullette de Liege' (the Swedes should see such a meatball!), accompanied by what they insisted on calling 'french' fries. We were dining in the garden when the sky above darkened and a wicked wind laden with hot, dry dust kicked up. The threatening thunderstorm never hit the festival site, but must have blown up a transformer somewhere, knocking out all the power in the massive complex during Nada Surf's set. They gamely ended their show with chants and percussion -a gambit that The Fleshtones naturally approved of.

Equipped with its own generators, the outage did not affect the main outdoor stage, where headliner Charlotte Gainsbourg would close the night. Lazy as I am about such things, I didn't want to miss the opportunity to see such a famous star (and daughter of important artists Jane Berkin and Serge Gainsbourg). Looking very Patti Smith-like, Charlotte delivered a very breezy, un-Patti-like set. She was not above leaning on her old man's repertoire for what would be her closing (and best) number 'Couleur Café'. There was no encore.
Sunday is market day in Liege and the next morning shoppers crowded the stalls that lined the quays along the Meuse for miles. We had no time to browse -our driver was due back in Turnout by 11AM. Our old friends The A-Bones would be waiting at the hotel there for a lift to the Sjock Festival.

The A-Bones On Tour!: Miriam Linna, Billy Miller and Bruce Bennett (Marcus the Carcass -partial view).

Sjock! Sjock! Sjock!
(07/11/10)
Belgians are officially bilingual: French and English, or Flemish and English. The country's ethnic mix has increasingly curdled along linguistic lines. Everywhere, homes displayed yellow banners bearing the rampant black lion of Flanders as we drove to the Sjock Festival (www.sjock.jkthoekske.be). Sjock is one of Europe's longest running R&R festivals. There's music, camping and lot's of Belgian beer. Everyone has a great time. We got to hang out with Belgian agent Peter Verstraelen and other old friends like The A-Bones, who we invited to join us on stage for an extremely improvised rendition of The Strangelove's 'Cara-Lin'. In between performances band members frequented the cabin-like clubhouse of The Gild of St. Ambrosius (founded 1711) where we could chow down and redeem gaming 'chips' for cold rations of 'Primus' beer.

photo: Flemish Gild; St. Ambrosius Gildenkamer -Sjock Festival's field HQ, 2010.

Driving back to our hotel in Turnout that night, my appetite was piqued by several late-night 'doner kebap' joints not more than a block and a half walk from where we were staying. Strolling briskly back to the most promising looking shop from the hotel, I ordered a sandwich, which the counterman slathered with white sauce. I have a profound disgust of mayonnaise -and this is mayo-happy Belgium, but realized it was only yoghourt sauce -spread from a huge plastic jar which probably had been sitting, unrefrigerated, on the counter all day. It was now about 2AM. Filled by my kebap and a feeling of well-being, I walked back to the hotel. It wasn't there. I wandered the twisting streets of the city's old quarter, which now seemed vastly more extensive than I had originally assumed. I found a bus stop, where I couldn't quite make myself understood to a driver. I had disregarded my own rule about always carrying a card from our hotel. It seemed every hotel in Flanders was named something like 'Corsendonk'. Boy, no more quips about learning Flemish now. Next to the stop there was a park where I discovered that Turnout had a rather impressive brick castle in the middle of a wide pool-like moat, next to which was a bench. I sat down to ponder the castle -and my next move. It began to rain. As I considered my options I noticed an open pub. It's floors were strewn with several inches of sand in celebration of some saint's day, or perhaps it was a 'beach' theme weekend. The staff commented on the difficulty of removing all that sand every year, then happily pointed me to my hotel. It was right around the corner. I got back to my stifling room in time to lay atop my bed for a few hours. Then along with performer 'Big Sandy', we all piled into an even hotter, airless mini-van for what we hoped would be a 90 minute drive to Brussels Airport. Despite the morning rush-hour traffic and my oncoming gastrointestinal attack we made it to the airport. There, due to over-booking, the kindness of the Delta check-in agent (and Streng's elite 'Silver' Skymiles status) we Fleshtones were booted up to the unfamiliar comforts of business class for our flight home.(see in-flight service: DL 141: www.Zaremblog.blogspot.com)
-Peter Zaremba

Hollywood Comes To Humboldt Street & TEXAS!

2010-08-02T07:17:00.000-07:00

Hollywood Comes To Humboldt Street
(a slight digression into everyday life)
(07/26 -29/10)
It's something I've been dreading: the leaflets were finally going up on block. We were informed that film crews for 'Blue Bloods', a new cop drama starring Tom Sellick, would be coming to Humboldt Street. We residents were to remove our cars upon risk of (well, no risk -certain) towing, starting at 10PM Wednesday. The crews would have use of our block until 11PM Thursday. Now I've always liked the idea of Greenpoint's low-key film renaissance. After all, the American movie industry was practically born in Brooklyn and Long Island before it followed the sun to Southern California. In the '20's', Vitagraph Studios pioneered the sound era right here in Brooklyn (check Jolson's 'A Plantation Act' -1926 -it's on 'Youtube along with everything else). Even The Marx Brothers first feature (The Cocoanuts -1929) was shot a stone's throw away on the Kaufman Sound Stages in Long Island City. Until recently however, the industry here was so low-profile that most people couldn't imagine it was being carried on right under their noses. Sergei's best friend went slack-jawed when I pointed out "The Naked Brothers Band' was being filmed in the neighborhood. For him what comes out of the TV or on a movie screen was the result of some unimaginable, far-off, almost mystical process.
"Oh, are they from Hollywood?" he quizzically asked.
"No, they're from around the block".

The once-in-a-lifetime thrill when one Hollywood production or another brought it's glamor (and stars!) into our everyday worlds -'oh I met Kirk Douglas -he was really nice!' was one thing -it's another when the 'dream factory' decides you're just a squatter on their back lot. We learned all about this when we lived in the East Village. There seemed to be a production underway on our block every other week (Don't step over that cable in your doorway! Cross the street! Don't come out!). Now it was happening here, and once the production companies decide your neighborhood is their latest push-over, they'll be here one after the other. Already, before 'Blue Bloods' would wrap up on Thursday night, 'The Good Wife' would kick in, banning parking on four blocks adjacent to us.

By Tuesday afternoon the guy sent by the production crew to start holding parking -a day before their permit - wouldn't move his traffic cone back two feet so I could fit into a spot and let my kid out of the car. Nothing brings out the crank in me like being bossed around by some parking thug from a film crew. And this was only Tuesday afternoon. I finally called the location coordinator listed on the warning leaflet. There seem to be two types of people who get the responsibility of having to respond to the irate residents of the neighborhoods about to be invaded by film crews: the reasonable sounding, 'let them get it off their chests' type -like the nice guy from 'The Good Wife' who listened to me vent for longer than he really had to; and the 'how dare you peasants say anything about us using your home as a prop/parking lot for our important clients?' sort -like the terse and impatient young woman who answered the phone for 'Blue Bloods'. I asked if they intended to actually shoot on our block, or were they merely holding parking for a few days for the production crews. "No shooting" she replied curtly, "we're just using the block to park production vehicles". The next day they were moving lights, booms, etc into 716 Humboldt Street -a few doors up from me -so how would you categorize her response to my question? By Wednesday morning there were traffic cones lining both sides of the block.

Thursday morning I had to drive Sergei to the last day of his Bard summer enrichment program. Returning home I fruitlessly searched for a legal spot in the neighborhood for almost an hour. It's a game of automotive musical chairs that I despise. I had work to do before returning to Sergei's 'commencement', the normal 'alternate side of the street' parking restrictions had gone into effect across Greenpoint and I would be towed. To his credit, after several calls, the location manager allowed me to park in the spacious production parking lot (where most of their vehicles should have been in the first place) several blocks away. I guess I'm an 'ingrate'. I walked home and glowered. I glowered while some actor sat idling his car's engine in front of my house. I glowered while some assistant harassed two old ladies who wanted to retrieve some things from their home.

Soon more talent showed up. Sure enough, they were decked out in the ridiculous regalia that costume designers imagine the murderous members of youth gangs to wear. Of course, once again low-crime Greenpoint was serving as a stand-in for some inner-city hotbed of violence. Now, why don't the location scouts really go for authenticity and actually shoot in the so-called 'Ghetto'? The working people of those neighborhoods (and the really authentic examples of the bad dudes who 'Blue Bloods' was trying to portray) wouldn't stand for it. I don't blame them. At least the carefully contrived racial diversity of the 'gang' was heartening. If America's street gangs alone were really so well integrated, we would have come a long way to healing our country's long-festering racial divisions.

Ultimately, the block put up with the inconvenience. To be honest, a lot of neighborhood people find the prospect of catching a glimpse of the back of Tom Sellick's stand-in's head exciting. So they had no problem with being walked over for three days by people who despise them. No wonder the Polish are mercilessly denigrated with impunity (along with Catholics) by the entertainment world. It's certainly a large reason neighborhoods (besides the low cost) such as this become booked up as round the clock film locations par excellence. Passive, generally law-abiding residents, totally taken for granted by their political representatives. And oddly (well not so odd, really) enough, why these neighborhoods are so attractive to hipsterization. (think about it: The East Village, Williamsburg's Northside, now Greenpoint... I leave the rest to the sociologists -unless I'm given a grant, of course). I never bothered to see if Tom Sellick (or his stand-in) showed up. Just lame actors uncomfortably draped in rented NYPD uniforms and beefy representatives from the Teamsters Union idling in their Escalades 'supervising' the production. Despairing of a future of living in a ready-made set for TV land, I called my friend Mitch who lives up the block. "What if they decide to use that house as a main character's home or something?" I asked.
"Don't worry" Mitch sagely replied "Tom Sellick hasn't had a successful show since 'Magnum P.I.'.

TEXAS!
(07/14 -18/10)

The sign of Buc-ee. Buc-ee emblazoned boxer shorts are available along with over twenty varieties of jerky at the Texas mega-service station.

Okay enough grousing, now for something more 'fun'. Once more, I've got to thank all of our friends in The Lone Star State, especially The Ugly Beats (www.theuglybeats) and our American agent Roggie Baer (www.rajiworld.com/) who made our 4-show trip to Texas so much fun -and possible! I always say a trip to Texas is like visiting another country, which of course at one point it was. We arrived in Austin just in time to head over to one of America's great record stores Waterloo (www.waterloo.com) for one of the band's best 'in-store' performances ever. I recalled filming there over a quarter of a century ago when 'The Cutting Edge' came to town for it's infamous Austin special. Although I had already resolved to eat nothing but Tex-Mex and barbecue the entire time I was in Texas, it was over to the east side for spirited Bastile Day celebrations at Justine's. France it is not, but Justine's did have ample outdoor seating in the warm Texas night, impromptu fireworks and a performance by friend and former Stray Cat Danny Harvey. The next day we hit the road with the Ugly Beats for Dallas and our shows at the 'Double Wide'.

Dallas (theme music please...)
Whenever I drive into Dallas from the south the theme music from the TV show begins to thunder in my head. Try it. We headed for the Belmont Hotel (from $99:www.belmontdallas.com) a beautifully renovated old-style 'motor court' on a bluff overlooking the downtown skyline. There's a cool cocktail lounge with terrace and a trendy barbecue restaurant. With a few hours to spare and the thermometer still pinned in the '100's', I headed for the pool. I was spending some time trying to get a shot of the hipster with the skyline in the background when a woman sidled up to me in the water. She wanted to know if I was covertly trying to take pictures of their children frolicking in the pool. I hadn't given that any thought, but I had noticed that their toddler wasn't equipped with a 'swimmy' diaper. Sure enough, the next morning the pool was closed 'for maintenance'.

Ken Fox, Dallas

Since Dallas is so close to Waco, this is 'Dr. Pepper' country. Texas bartenders can even dispense the stuff from their 'soda guns', so I decided on an evening-long experiment of Dr. Pepper and rum. I was hoping it would be something like 'Moxie' and rum. Interesting, but I'd say the throne of the 'cuba libré' is secure.

service -Texas size. Buc-ee's, I-45 in Madisonville, TX on the road to Houston.

Quo vadis? former Fly-Rite Boy, now ace drummer of The Ugly Beats Bobby Trimble, ponders Buc-ee's overwhelming selection of jerky. 'Beaver Nuggets' are also available. Not a meat product, 'beaver nuggets' are actually sugar-glazed puffed corn. We all agreed they'd be better in a bowl of milk for breakfast.

"no... no... no..." Alice Berry, DRT -formerly of Hillbilly Frankenstein, with 'Tippi Hedren' Barbie (note Tippi's suit).

We were graciously invited to the stylishly decorated bungalow of long-time friend Alice Berry in 'The Heights' (elevation 25 feet above steamy downtown Houston). The city was founded near the swampy place where Sam Houston turned on and shattered Santa Ana's army in the Texas War Of Independence. Somehow I missed the colossal statue of Sam that everyone said we passed on the way into town. Perhaps the boys were, in the words of Huntz Hall, "suffering from haloukinayshuns' caused by a cigarette that ain't quite legal" -if I didn't know better. The night's proceedings at Houston's Continental Club, a great complex that includes several bars, outdoor lounges and a late-night record shop, might have been the best of the mini-tour. That is, if not for Austin.

The Ugly Beats make a 'Bee Line' at The Continental, Houston -buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!

Please excuse the quip about marijuana, which was in poor taste. In much better taste was the local branch of Luling City Market (www.lulingcitymarket.com) where we stopped before leaving town for a lunch of Texas-style barbecue -juicy beef brisket, pork ribs and smoked sausage links. Sold by the weight sans plats, Joe Emery commented that "if your barbecue's not served on paper, you're in the wrong place!" I always figured that if the pit didn't have at least one citation from the Department of Health, then you knew you were in the wrong place. Then on to Austin, where we wrapped up our Texas swing at Austin's own 'Continental Club' -exactly where The Fleshtones played on our first transcontinental tour for 'Up Front' in 1981. You'll find footage of the sweltering scene on FB.

-Peter Zaremba

next (finally): Homeland Insecurity, Roman (un)Holiday and Sjock! Sjock! Sjock!

Return of The Busybuddy

2010-07-21T13:18:00.000-07:00

Sagamore Hill, Fourth Of July, 2010: youth turns its back on history...

My apologies for the long absence. It's just that this Busybuddy has been -well, very busy: amidst the flurry of activity was playing (briefly!) the 30th anniversary celebrations for DC's 9:30 Club (May 31) a venue that played such a mighty part in the story of The Fleshtones -after short but enjoyable nights in Arlington, VA where we're always happy to perform at The IOTA as well as in Baltimore where we stalked Fells Point (boy has it changed!) for crab cakes, appeared at Otto's and stayed at the very recommendable Admiral Fell Inn (888 South Broadway, Baltimore, MD; www.harbormagic.com) just steps from where Edgar Allen Poe was last seen alive and where we woke up to find the British warship HMS Sutherland docked across the street; a great weekend to our mid-west including a visit (June 11) to the deliriously stylish Detroit home of socialite-rocker Muffy Kroha (a report on which awaits photographic documentation from the even busier Ken Fox) followed by a performance at The Magic Stick (which was not the site of Harry Houdini's last performance -that was in Detroit, but at The Garrick Theatre) attended by our favorite Detroit rock & rollers, as well as Chicago (June 12) where its' always nice to chat with Fleshtones biographer Joe Bonomo (read 'Sweat -the story of America's garage band' -I did -twice) and Beachland Ballroom (lodged in a great old Croatian National Home) in the Cleveland suburb of Euclid Beach, OH; a near-disastrous (thanks to Delta Airlines) sally into Florida (June 17 -19) where a no-show by the rest of the band due to airline malfunction was only salvaged by our friends in The Empyres (www.myspace.the empyres) and the editorial staff of Destination Weddings & Honeymoons Magazine (we've got to get back to FL, I know it will work out someday). Ken arranged for us to headline the wildly successful River Fest (June 26) in his current hometown of Beacon, NY with the majestic Hudson as a backdrop. After the performance Streng and I hitched a (spectacular) ride along the historic river with old friends from 'The Pyramid Club' days Greg (-nice photo of the Temple of Kulkulcan for the rear cover of The Fleshtones 'Beautiful Light' LP) Sarah and Sharon to the very Swedish Mid-summer party at my in-laws home in Nyack. Topping it all off was a whirlwind Fourth Of July with the family on Long Island.

view from 'The Admiral Fell'

An All-American Fourth Of July

The Zarembas figured attempting to navigate across Manhattan to watch the Macy's Fourth Of July Fireworks (since they've been moved way over to the Hudson River instead of the adjacent -to us! -East River) would just be so miserable that we searched for another, easily-accessible, small-town display. Riverhead, Long Island, was having fireworks and is only about an hour and forty-five minutes away -if you don't get nailed by 'Hamptons' traffic. That morning, however, we were unsure of our destination as we pulled away from our Greenpoint, Brooklyn home. I had already purchased a NYS 'Empire Passport', which allows access to state parks from Montauk to Niagara Falls ($65) so we set our course for Jones Beach (vehicle use fee without pass: $10 per car)) so Sergei could try out his new 'boogie board'. The crowds weren't bad at all (yet), but waves were also lacking, the sun was absolutely blinding and Sergei wouldn't go in the water despite the heat. Decisive action was needed, so we headed up to the 'north shore' where an 'Old Fashioned Fourth Of July Celebration' was underway at Sagamore Hill, the former country home of President Teddy Roosevelt (http://www.nps.gov/archive/sahi/home.htm). Instead of the hot, surly mobs we anticipated, we were pleased to discover (a parking space!) and crowds of good-natured holiday-makers out (like us) to enjoy the day at TR's beautiful estate. There was a crack brass band on the verandah, re-enactors in Rough Rider uniforms provided a mounted color-guard and 'ringer' James Foote posed as the great man himself. The flag was raised, the anthem sung and the band struck up appropriately stirring aires like 'The Big Stick March'. We toured the house, which I confess I had never done before, despite having grown up 'New York/Long Island'. There was lots of Teddy's stuffed big game, but the most interesting items were the saber and Stetson he wore at the charge up San Juan Hill cradled by the immense antlers of an elk, and a native American depiction of the Battle Of Little Big Horn on an animal hide. I did not notice his Nobel Peace Prize medal (for personally arranging the treaty between Japan and Russia ending their 1905 war). We didn't stay to hear any of TR's famous addresses, but as we departed I was very satisfied to hear that the president liked to wind-up his Independence Day celebrations at Sagamore Hill by setting off fireworks. One of the miracles of this patriotic day is that I, like Teddy, managed to keep all my fingers. I'll never forget my father demonstrating to this awed child the proper way to throw a lit cherry bomb (he still has all his fingers too, thank god).

young bather, Wildwood State Park

We still hadn't satisfied our yearning for a dip in the sea, so we sped out on the infamous LIE, past flashing signs warning of full parking lots at state parks like Heckshire, Robert Moses and Sunken Meadows, to island's far reaches in Riverhead Township. The signs at Wildwood State Park (vehicle use fee without pass: $4 per car) also said 'full', but we were waved in (did he see the pass or were we not noticed?) and simply waited about 90 seconds for someone to pull out of their parking spot. Were among perhaps a half dozen very conspicuous English-speaking families out of the tens of thousands enjoying the pleasantly cool waters of the Sound. Marilla and Sergei played paddle-ball on the pebbly beach, anglers cast for plentiful 'scup' while the otherwise low-laying life-guards made desultory attempts to prevent people from climbing (and destroying) the magnificent, tall sand bluffs backing the beach.
what a peach... Davis Farm, Wading River, LI

Leaving the park we stopped for freshly picked peaches at Davis Farm Stand (1039 Soundview Ave Rt.25A at Hulse Landing Rd, Wading River, LI: 631-886-1095; http://davispeachfarm.com/wp/). I can't tell you which peaches were more delicious -yellow, white or red, but free samples from the baskets of over-ripe 'seconds' sent luscious juice flowing down our arms. White and yellow cherries were delicious too, reminders of the bounty of Long Island's lost farmlands. We continued east along 25A through an (almost) unbroken agricultural landscape glowing in the golden sunlight of the late afternoon. I recalled, when as a little boy, the same lovely fields once stretched all the way into eastern Queens. I didn't want to spoil it for Sergei by telling him to take a good look. Soon all of this would be gone too.
We were entering Southold. Occupying the 'north fork' of 'fish-shaped Pomonok', this ancient township was a part of Connecticut back in the days before the English seized the rest of what is now New York from the Dutch. In recent times it's become wine country, which just might save agriculture on the North Folk -hopefully it's more profitable to grow grapes than sub-divisions. It's certainly more so than traditional crops like potatoes or cauliflower. I was even surprised to see a few small fields of wheat, waving in the sea-breeze as it's done here since the 1630's -and corn, as planted by the native Americans here for millennia before that. Our destination was my sister's village of Mattituck (she's off visiting Graceland) for ice cream. The Magic Fountain is the sort of old-style drive-in that every North American town once had at least one of, serving home-made ice creams, sodas and sundaes (9825 Main Rd, Mattituck, LI: 631-298-4908; ). Yes, at $3.50 a scoop, I'd say the prices approach 'boutique-ish', but the ambience and product are reassuringly authentic. There's a dizzying variety of flavors, with seasonal favorites like peach and avocado-coconut in the summer and pumpkin in the fall (yes, yes, yes, there's triple-chocolate/fudgy/mudpie/cocao/brownie/chocolate/whatever for those with one-flavor vocabularies). Having had dessert, we did diner in reverse -heading for 'Legends' (835 first Street, New Suffolk, LI: 631-734-5123; www.legends-restaurant.com) mostly because we knew it was there, figured we'd get a table and the four minute drive to the water-girt hamlet of New Suffolk is so pretty. Although it lacks the prerequisite dock-side dining (try Mattituck's Old Mill Inn for that: 631-298-8080; www.theoldmillinn.net/) the food is reliably good, in fact I'd say the New Suffolk (New York) style clam chowder (yeah yeah, it's soup -$6 -$9) and calamari con pepperonccini ($12) are great. The lamb shank and Long Island duckling (of course) looked good too.
After diner, we strolled across the road to the waterfront where a lonely historical sign marks the spot where inventor John Holland developed and tested the first practical submarines for the U.S. Navy at the turn of the previous century. A spectacular vermillion and purple sunset streaked the unbelievably broad sky, reminding us it was time to head west to catch the fireworks back in Riverhead. We got there just in time to pull over and join a clutch of people on the Rt. 105 Bridge (Cross River Rd) watching the fireworks mirrored on the waters of the Peconic River. Then an extraordinary drive as the surprisingly large-scale pyrotechnics of private citizens merged with legal displays of the towns that we passed. For 65 miles to both sides of the expressway and beckoning in the distance ahead the
'bombs bursting' punctuated the inky night sky, leading us back to Greenpoint and home.
-Peter Zaremba

Coming: Homeland Insecurity, Roman (non)Holiday, Gainsbourg Leigeois, Sjock! Sjock! Sjock! and 'TEXAS'.

The Fleshtones head north to Canada - Montreal 08/19, Toronto 08/20, Hamilton 08/21, see you all there!

Nevis, Makato & remembering Henry Gaffney

2010-05-26T21:33:00.000-07:00

Without 4 Seasons

A quick trip to a small island 05/13-16/10.
I figured I'd start this off the same way I've seen lots of stories on Nevis begin -with a photo of the island's instantly-recognizable profile as seen from sea. It's all the more appropriate now that American Eagle flights from San Juan have been suspended and most travelers first glimpse of Nevis is once more exactly that -as seen from the ferry from neighboring St. Kitt's. It's a view that prompted Columbus himself, who noting its long-extinct volcano wearing its crown of clouds, named the island in honor of 'Nuestra Señora de las Nieves' -Our Lady Of The Snows.
The original inhabitants called the island 'Oualie' -Carib for 'island of beautiful waters' but since they didn't make maps it was Nieves, later anglicized to Nevis, that stuck. The disastrous activity of equally -assumed dormant volcano on next-door Montserrat gives one pause for thought -briefly. However, it was this fantastically rich volcano soil and fair climate that made Nevis rich (at least for its planters and merchants) and a center of gracious society during the days of slavery. Wealthy overseas visitors came to take the cure at the island's Bath Hotel (1778), the Caribbean's first tourist resort. It now houses government offices, although you can still par-boil yourself in the near scalding waters in a outdoor concrete trough on the grounds (I tried it once, as author Bob Morris then commented "relentlessly unrefreshing"). Many of the old plantation 'greathouses' now serve as the nucleus for casually elegant inns, a distinctive feature of lodgings on Nevis.

How we came to be going to Nevis is a bit of a story in itself. Although I normally grouse about bad luck, it's usually of the perpetual missing-my-subway-by-seconds variety. I certainly don't gamble (this was reconfirmed by a Macau sooth-sayer -out of the thousands of the day's supplicants I was probably the only one that he didn't advise to rush out and break the bank in that gaming-mad territory's mega-casinos) or win things -until my business card was plucked from a bowl at last year's Caribbean Tourism Organization Media Event in New York (actually, I also once won a trip from Antigua Tourism, who refused to honor the award). I couldn't believe my good fortune. I had won a 3 nights stay, with meals for two at The Nesbit Beach Plantation Beach Club on the island of Nevis. Add a pair of frequent-flyer award tickets (be flexible!) and we had lucked into the perfect way for Marilla and I to celebrate our 25th wedding anniversary.

It takes a little extra effort to get to Nevis, but its more than worth it if an authentic little piece of The West Indies is what you are after. We had taken AA to St. Kitt's via Miami, then grabbed a taxi down to the ferry dock in the very flavorful, old capital city of Basseterre. Lined with busy cooksheds, the ferry dock played host to a motley 'Beat The Devil' collection of travelers: tie-wearing West Indian businessmen, islanders returning from errands, a sprinkling of tourists like ourselves and raffish ex-pats up to who knows what. Waiting in the heat, the crowd was worked by several of the town's mentally-ill unfortunates. Just when it seemed the situation was reaching critical mass, we, along with a couple of vehicles and inter-island supplies were boarded upon the decidedly vintage 'Sea Hustler' (EC$25 plus EC$1 port fee p/p). We climbed up some ladder-like stairways and found ourselves a breezy bench next to the pilothouse where we could enjoy the 40 minute crossing and a cold 'Carib' beer (EC$4).

Charlestown

Our arrival was made all the more auspicious when we were greeted by the friendly face of John Andrews, who was waiting at the dock to offer us a lift to our hotel. If Basseterre is a throw-back to an old-time West Indies town, then Nevis's only 'city' Charlestown, is even more so. Take away the cars and signs and Alexander Hamilton would have little trouble recognizing his home town. Old balconied stone buildings housing shops (perhaps one where the statesman had apprenticed) still crowd the narrow streets. Within minutes we were out of the town, passing the shuttered 4 Seasons Resort, Nevis's grossly under-utilized airport, and pulling up the drive of Nisbet Plantation (www.nesbitplantation.com).

A Young Prince Charles: happier times at Nesbit (1973) -what happened? Pictured here with Nesbit's Harriet Turner, the photo of The Prince Of Wales hangs in the cocktail lounge of The Nesbit Greathouse.

Nesbit Greathouse, built 1778: as it is today.

Shown to our cottage, we were touched to find it decorated with anniversary balloons, fruit, a bottle of wine and small bottles of 'Ting' and cane spirits -'Ting with a Sting' we were jokingly informed. There was just time for a quick swim that segued into the weekly Manager's Cocktail Party (rum punch, wine and hot hors d'oeuvres like tannia fritters and delicious wahoo 'nuggets'). The cookout with live band that follows is a Thursday night institution on Nevis that attracts guests from other hotels as well as Nevisians.

Quite frankly, some people might find Nesbit (and Nevis for that matter) too relaxing. It is assuredly devoid of glitz. Probably more by way of 'default mode' Nevis has retained its rural character. If you wake up early enough, you'll probably met the neighboring cows who wander on to the resort's grounds to breakfast on the expansive lawn that sweeps down to the sea. Sleep late and you'll never know they were there. We tended to close the bar and be the last ones out of the dining room, usually by 9:20PM. Islanders, who travel far afield for employment, find themselves drawn back to Nevis, always citing its 'quiet' as a reason. However, there is nightlife: Sunshine's on Pinney's Beach near town features DJ music (and its notorious 'killer bee' punch). Resorts and bars usually offer nightly entertainment of some sort on a revolving basis. John tipped us off to a new scene happening at Riviera House on the Government Road near the hospital. After an elegant dinner at the greathouse, we couldn't resist the siren-call of our cozy cottage, but heard Riviera was fun. Let me know how it is if you ever make it there.
Turf wars: A land crab guards it's little bit of Nesbit's spectacular lawn.

Being as small as Nevis is, it's quite easy to get around by hailing one of the mini-buses that troll the main road for fares. They have colorful names and will have an 'H' included on their license plate. From Nisbet (which is a bit further from town than the airport) into Charlestown usually costs EC$4 per person. A connecting bus onwards from town to the cutoff for The Hermitage, where we were heading for lunch, was EC$3 per person. If the driver knows you, or it suits them, they'll drop you off at your destination even though it is not directly on their route. Mini-buses can be found waiting for passengers on the two tiny 'squares' in Charlestown. Feel free to speak clearly and ask which direction they're going, when and how much it will cost.

Plaque of Fanny Nesbitt, mounted in the massive hearth that is all that remains of the plantation's cookhouse.
The Nesbit Plantation Beach Club is the island's only plantation inn on its own beach. It's even more renown as the former home of Frances 'Fanny' Nesbitt, the island widow who famously married the future Lord Admiral Nelson (they wed under a cottonwood tree at Montpelier, another family estate that is also now an up-scale inn). The wedding is listed in the register of St. John's 'Fig Tree' Church (circa 1680). Fanny is popularly thought of as an older widow, however she was actually only 22 when she married Nelson. Also not often mentioned is this love story's less than happy ending: see; 'That Hamilton Woman' - Vivien Leigh, Lawrence Olivier (1941) -one of the movies much screened on WOR's 'Million Dollar Movie' during my childhood.Vivien Leigh as 'That Hamilton Woman'. Gladys Cooper played the wronged Fanny.

The Hermitage (www.hermitagenevis.com), whose greathouse is claimed to be the oldest wooden home in the West Indies (circa 1640), also has a reputation for the best food on the island. My curried chicken roti (boneless!) with home-made mango chutney (US$12) and Marilla's fried flying fish (US$18), certainly were tasty, but it's worth the price just to sit on the Hermitage's marvelous verandah. After lunch we were shown around the grounds, including the 'ghaut' (gully) were the monkeys congregate in the morning and evenings.

Almina, a potter at 'Newcastle Pottery'. The studio is near the entrance to Nesbit Plantation. It's nice to bring back a souvenir actually made on the island, at the same time supporting a traditional island handicraft that predates the arrival of Columbus. We bought the fish-shaped candle holder for US$18, although there were many items for much less.

Return to St. Kitt's, Nevis can be seen across 'The Channel'.
For schedule reasons, the Sea Bridge ferry (http://www.seabridgeskn.com/; EC$20 per person), then a shared cab, US$10 per person, proved our best option for returning to St. Kitts for our flight home. An islander who introduced herself as 'Sweet Pea' offered us places to sit and struck up a conversation. Like I've said, locals are often pleasantly chatty and ready to fill you in on island gossip -like which drivers and boat operators were in 'cahoots' with each other. Remember, Nevis is a small place. Talk turned to The 4 Seasons. If the island was only going to have only one major resort, 4 Seasons was a good option, attracting a high-end clientele with nothing 'brassy' about it. Sort of what The Ritz-Carlton would be if... . Sorely missed by islanders, the S4's closing due to hurricane damage caused a classic economic ripple effect; loss of employment, then less visitors to the island as American Eagle dropped servicing Nevis. Sweet Pea mentioned that the resort had subsidized the flights and that she heard the resort was scheduled to reopen this November. "I sure hope so' she added, "a lot of folks depended on The 4 Seasons". The surplus amphibious assault vessel pulled into Major's Bay, St. Kitt's. Except for folks meeting the ferry, the bay was deserted but like most of St. Kitt's east end, it's slated for major development.

www.nevisisland.com

if you visit Nevis:
A nice, chatty driver in St. Kitts (SK&N people tend to be friendly): Queen Maneva 869 664 1401; air-conditioned van, call ahead, $10 from airport to ferry dock in Basseterre. Will do beach excursions, etc. My 'Dear Friend Andy' (as Moe Howard once addressed him in a letter) Goldfarb recommends 'Uncle Millie' who he met during a recent stay at Timothy's Beach Resort on St.. Kitts. I'll get his number ASAP. Anders also spoke highly of something called the 'Shiddety Shack' (what will these kids think of next?).

EC vs. USD: Although 'king dollar' is accepted everywhere on the island, it pays to use 'Eastern Caribbean dollars, the local currency. The exchange rate has long been stable at around USD1 to EC$2.68, proffered USD is usually rounded out to EC2.50 or less, with change returned in EC, or no change given at all.

Remember to set aside US$22. or the equivalent for the various exit taxes and airport fees that will be collected after you check in for your departure from St. Kitt's Bradshaw International (SKB). Cash only.

As seen from the pool at Nisbet: St. Kitt's in the distance.

Coming right up: An even quicker trip to Mankato, Minnesota with The Fleshtones: "A little travelin' music, Sammy!..." (in progress)
The Fleshtones were back in action thanks to...

...Shelley, Tim and all the nice folks at KMSU, who invited us to Mankato, MN to play a special 'audience appreciation' show along with the Legendary Stardust Cowboy on 05/21 -quite a bill. Pictured is Lee's Liquor Lounge, Minneapolis, MN, the cleanest club in the USA -no, the world, where we played the night before.

Also, the world's cleanest (and most interesting, no brainless grafitti here) bandroom in Lee's finished basement, where I could have stayed all night, or as long as the 'Grain Belt' beer held out -thanks to all the guys in The Anonymus, who opened (and brought the Grain Belt) along with the Fuck Knights.
The next day our route to Mankato took us along the Minnesota River. We passed through Le Sueur, the lovely 'Valley of the Green Giant'. A cutout of the friendly giant peers over the tree-tops, greeting motorists on US169. We did not stop to buy any cans of 'Le Sueur' peas, but it did remind us of those infamous 'out-takes' of Orson Wells attempting to do 'voice-overs' for Bird's Eye peas -"In July..."

More of the blue stuff, Mankato MN

**************************************************************

My brother-in-law, songwriter Henry Gaffney, died peacefully at his home in Sharon, CT on Sunday May 23, 2010. He penned songs for artists from Whitney Houston to The Four Tops. Enamored with the elegance of the Cole Porter era (and recognizing the commercial shrewdness of Billy Joel) Henry's music wasn't exactly my thing. More crucial for me, he was extremely generous (and wise) in his guidance to this just starting off novice in the wonderland that is the music business. He would chuckle at that -although not a cynic himself, he clearly recognized the cynicism (and good) that swirls around us. I think I honor him best with the seriousness I have held fast to his advice. Yes, I think I'll hang on to my 'publishing', no matter what the lawyers say. Possessing peace of mind, Henry shall surely rest in peace.

-Peter Zaremba

Blue Curaçao

2010-05-07T19:30:00.000-07:00

in-flight service: AA11879 (04/28/10), etc, see: Zaremblog

More blue -pool at The Avila Beach Hotel

Willemstad, April 30, 2010
It never rains in Curaçao. It was raining -quite hard. It was early morning Queen's Day, a national holiday in The Kingdom of The Netherlands (of which Curaçao is a part) and 'official' birthday of Queen Beatrix. 'Official' because her birthday is actually in January. However, she decreed that it should be celebrated every April 30th as this was the birthday of her mother, the beloved Queen Juliana.
No matter how Curaçaoans feel about The Netherlands, Queen Beatrix and the royal family seem to held in almost universal esteem on the island. Everyone was preparing to pour into downtown Willemstad to celebrate, donning articles of orange clothing in honor of The Royal House of Nassau-Orange. I would have gladly done the same, but wound up lamely explaining many times that I just didn't pack any orange-colored clothes for the trip. Of course, the next day I remembered my golf jacket -orange, intensely orange. I'm not Dutch, but I do like to participate.

Queens's Day: wearing the orange.

I had gotten really geared up for the festivities the night before. I was having a 'Polar' (the locally popular Venezuelan beer) and chatting with the staff at the bar of Baoase Resort (www.baoase.com), a Balinese-inspired boutique hotel with a private beach and villas clustered around a jungle-y swimming pool. Everyone was excited: there would be continuous DJs and live music at several locations in Willemstad. "Don't even try to get into town on Queen's Day!" I was warned. Most anticipated by the Baoase staff was to be an appearance by 'Golden Earring'. I couldn't have cared less for Golden Earring during their heyday (which was ...?), but the general enthusiasm was infectious. I couldn't remember any of their hits. On Queen's Day someone in a shop reminded me by singing a few bars of 'Radar Love'. Anyway, according to my official 'Wat is er te doen op Koninginnedag?' (What is there to doin' on Queen's Day?) program, what was really in store for Curaçao was 'Rockveteranen The Owners & Barry Hay van de Golden Earring' -a bit of self-explanatory Dutch that you can figure out as easily as I did. Now, as the rain persisted, someone from the hotel said they expected the intense showers to continue all morning. I started to think the weather might put a damper on the celebrations, but then the sun came out to stay. It doesn't rain much in Curaçao.

Baoase: entrance to pool from villa 4

Anyway, I've been sweating over a typically long-winded treatise on my observations on Curaçao and it's parallels with New York. You know, Peter Stuyvesent, guilders, the early 17th century explosion of Dutch energy as Holland's fleet sailed forth from Amsterdam with brooms lashed to the masts to 'sweep' the English from the seas and all that, but now I figure I'll just stick to some nice pictures and (long -ha ha!) captions:

Willemstad waterfront; 'Punda'

I had been fascinated with the idea of Curaçao ever since I saw a color photo of Willemstad's colorful Dutch-style buildings in my Golden Book Of The World, vol. North America, that I had badgered my mother into buying at the A&P check-out counter when I was six. My Dad explained that Curaçao was a Dutch island in the Caribbean that he had visited during his sailing days (no, not a yacht -the merchant marine). The largest of the Dutch 'ABC' Caribbean islands, Curaçao is about 37 miles long, or about the same distance from the island to the South American mainland. On a clear day they say you can see the mountain tops of Venezuela. You can more easily see and hear the Latin American influence, and that of more distant Africa, all round you in Curaçao's architecture, food, language and music. The island is best known for an orange-flavored liqueur, but I'll get to that later.

As I was saying, operations in New York (then New Amsterdam) and Curaçao were both set up by the Dutch at about the same time for different commercial purposes. Curaçao's moneymakers were salt (for herring) and slavery. New York's was fur. Manhattan has zero buildings to remind us of the city's Dutch roots. Curaçao has the entire city of Willemstad. Although often cited as a Dutch town transported to the Caribbean, Willemstad's languid tropical clime, marked South American influence and townhouses painted in striking, cotton-candy pastels, is quite unlike anything in the Netherlands. A UNESCO world heritage site, the historic city has proven such a signature tourist attraction that in very recent times smaller faux versions of it have materialized in other Dutch islands such as Aruba and St. Martin, where nothing of the sort had ever existed before.

Pehna Building

Tall flemish-style buildings, like the Pehna Building (1708) line the busy streets and waterfront cafes snuggle under the ramparts of the sturdy forts that protected the entrance to the harbor. Another Willemstad landmark is the Queen Emma 'floating bridge' (circa 1888, re-constructed 1939) that spans Sint Annabaai channel separating the city's two sections of Punda and Otrobanda ('point' and 'other bank' or 'shore' in Papiamento, the island's Spanish-based creole). As ugly and intrusive as it is practical, the soaring Queen Juliana Bridge was opened Queen's Day, 1976, to relieve the massive tie-ups caused whenever the Queen Emma Bridge swings open for sea-going traffic (which is often). The only other positive thing about the new bridge: the view of Willemstad while crossing it is magnificent.

Queen Emma Bridge: 'closed'

and 'open'...

I wasn't disappointed, the blue curaçao thing started happening right off the bat. Upon my arrival at Baoase, I was welcomed with a cocktail mixed with the stuff, although the addition of fresh orange and kiwi juices had turn the drink to a lovely, opaque green. I tried to have something mixed with blue curaçao each of the four days I was on the island -it's most popular use being in a 'blue lagoon' made with either gin or vodka.

The island's famous name-sake liqueur is made from the peels of locally-grown bitter orange. Faintly amber in its 'natural' state, Curaçao is then dyed red, orange or any other color you might want. It's the classic 'blue' that makes showy cocktails look like window-cleaner all around the world.

Cocktails at Baoase: Piper-Heidsieck, Blue Curaçao and a dash of grenadine -a sort of Baollini (Baoase +Bellini)

Most people familiar with the band know that The Fleshtones have a long and venerable relationship with this liqueur, going back to the legendary house -parties where the band got its start in Whitestone, Queens. Fueled by trash-cans full of lethal, Windex-hued 'Blue Whale' -the 'blue' was provided by blue curaçao. I remember it being my turn to answer the door one of the many times the police were called to the house by irate neighbors one night -a cop entered, and stepping over a girl passed out on the floor, wryly commented in New York cop fashion 'if that were my daughter, I'd put a bullet in her head...". Occasionally we still mix up a trash barrel full on request (special occasions!). Keith Streng first introduced the drink to the band, and although pretty much a teetotaler these days, remains the mix-meister. Invite him to your next soirée to insure the evening's ignition and rapid lift-off. Recipes for the cocktail even appear on at least one of our album jackets -I believe the sought-after 'Fleshtones Living Legend Series' on IRS records, as well as in the book 'Sweat' by Joe Bonomo (www.continuumbooks.com). Check out the Fleshtone's clip "Right Side Of A Good Thing' on Youtube for a gander at a pond -full of blue whale (and some glimpses of the young Bangles).

Willemstad's marvelous 'Floating Market', where schooners laden with tropical produce from nearby Venezuela tie up along the quay . The vendors sleep on board their boats.

Floating market: sapodilla

Queen's Day menu; Plasa Bieu

Plasa Bieu! -hot!!

Across the 'Waaigatplein' from the floating market is 'Marshe Bieuw' or 'Plasa Bieu!' (old market) an immense blue shed with yellow lattice walls, now an eatery catering to the market crowd. Inside, a counter runs the length of the shed, behind which kitchens with names like 'Zus di Plaza' and 'Gracia di Dios' dole out substantial servings of 'Kuminda Krioyo' from huge kettles simmering over hot coals. There was goat stew, grilled 'kabritu' (kid), sopa di coco (seafood in coconut soup), curries and satay. Our guide from the tourist office said that her little son had made her promise to bring home some arepa di pampuna (pumpkin pancakes) -greasy-good and better without the raisins -about NAf 5 (I didn't want to get into this, but the price is in Netherland Antilles 'florins' more popularly known as 'guilders' -the equivalent of about 67¢US each).

A Fung, Plasa Bieu: who says chow mein is boring?

Near the 'Plasa Bieu' or 'Marshe Bieuw' (old market) was 'Marshe Nobo' -a circular, concrete market crowded with cosmetic counters, 'botanicas' and Dominican herbalists with bottles of home-made tonics like 'mamajuana'. At the entrance, an organ grinder (kaha di orgel) struck up a old-fashioned air, with a lively latin beat loudly scraped out by a guy on a metal 'guiro'. I shot a nice 'video' with my pocket camera, then accidently erased it trying to shoot a second version 'just to be safe'. I later discovered I had neither. I also wound up not seeing Golden Earring. Probably for the better.
Soon after crossing the Queen Emma Bridge into Otrobanda, I heard that the police had closed the entire downtown to any more traffic.

Moon 'Beach Club' There's no beach to speak of -really a chic 'Miami' style pool/lounge in one of the old mansions that line the shore in Willemstad -the type of place where they spin cool sounds like 'Sade' -although I don't recall actually hearing Sade there. I had a 'blue lagoon' and wished I had brought my bathing suit, although the fabulous pool was really more of a focal point for stylish Curaçaoan's cocktails and conversation. I wonder what it's like during the day? (www.mooncuracao.com/)

Blue lagoon; Moon

The moon also rises: dinner, fit for a queen at Avila Beach Hotel (www.avilahotel.com). In fact the Queen of The Netherlands and the royal family stay here when visiting Curaçao, although for security reasons hotel director Tone Møller would not reveal which rooms. But I've got a good idea. We had keeshi yena, (from the Spanish 'queso 'relleno') formerly made by stuffing the discarded rinds of gouda or edam cheeses with piccadillo (spicy chopped meat).

Brian Spaeth (The Clock Stopped At A Strange And Savage Hour -www.seriousinkpress.com) was right, caves make me think of papier-mâché and the cheap horror movies that fascinated us as children -like 'World Of The Vampires' (starring Ramon Gay, Mexico,1960). Hato Caves make a nice diversion, soothing to sun-blasted eyes and with lots of toy-like little bats fluttering around. The pre-columbian (?) rock drawings however, are off limits.

Shastre Veeris, son of herbalist Dina Veeris, Dina Veeris Herb Garden

home-made soaps; Dina Veeris Herb Garden, one of the best tours of its kind (www.dinahveeris.com)

Aloe Vera Plantation (www.aloecuracao.com) I don't put much stock in natural cures and homeopathic medicine, but will personally attest to the efficacy of this spiny member of the lily family (I learned that here) -I had some persistent blisters on my knuckles caused by some noxious plant in our yard back home. I rubbed some fresh aloe vera on at the plantation, and forgot about it. The next morning, the blisters had healed.

Street: Otrobanda

Inside Kura Hulanda: 'street scene'

The Hotel Kura Hulanda preserves several of the oldest blocks of the 'Otrobanda' neighborhood. It may seem odd to book a hotel in the Caribbean with no beach, but you can always stay at their 'Lodge Kura Hulanda & Beach Club', then make the in-town location your base to explore the city for a few nights. (www.kurahulanda.com).

Kura Hulanda Slave Museum: slave-ship hold, without the stench or misery.
Kura Hulanda's eight blocks also incorporates an extensive Slavery Museum (US$9), quite relevant as slavery was once Curaçao's main business. A bit of a house(s) of genuine horrors -our excellent guide's gripping explanations of the exhibits often departed considerably from their captions.

Iguana: Before, and after...
Occupying a rambling country house, Jaanchie's has been a roadside attraction for locals and tourists alike since 1936. As Tone of the Avila Beach Hotel pointed out, businesses on the island couldn't get by just on the tourist trade. This is a good thing, with restaurants and hotels more authentic (and lower priced) than on islands like Aruba. Local creole cooking is the attraction here, along with great, tall glasses of refreshing lemonade; buy a glass of cheap 'white' rum to spike them with and they're even better.

Jaanchie Jr.
One of Jaanchie's specialties is iguana, which winds up stewed and in soup. Unfortunately (for the harmless lizard), iguana is considered an aphrodisiac by the men of the island. Yes, yes, it tastes like chicken, but with a heck of a lot more (smaller) bones -well, maybe better than chicken -bit more like rabbit, only with shorter legs and a much longer 'saddle'.

Despite what people (who haven't been to Curaçao) say, the island does have wonderful beaches, but they are concentrated at the island's western end, not in the city. Here the formidable cliffs are notched with beautiful sandy coves. Look for Captain Goodlife's wildly decorated headquarters on the extreme left hand side of Playa Santa Cruz. His orange frites (I'm guessing -annetto?) are famous across the island and the same goes for his shrimp, calamari, oysters and other seafood. As our group discovered, they sure can fry stuff on this island.
The intensely mystical Captain operates what might be the best boat tour on the island. For USD20 a person, he'll take you out to the renown 'Blue Room' -a long, (very) low 'swim-in' sea-cave who's interior reflects and amplifies the water's brilliant, deep cobalt color; snorkeling over the wreak of a ship sunk by his father; and a drop-off on a black sand beach. Because we'd be in and out of the water, the captain advised leaving cameras behind, which I gladly did. I wish had brought my camera. Now I really was seeing the intense 'Curaçao blue' waters that might have been the inspiration for the intense hue of blue curaçao. Peering over the side of the boat the Captain pointed saying "look, there it is! Can you see the small pyramid?" Through the rippling, deep blue water I could make out flashes of a small dark, cairn against the pale sand far below - the undersea resting place of the Captain's little daughter Antonella who had succumbed to leukemia two years ago.

Curaçao, blue and otherwise at Angelina's, a cooking school-restaurant in an old Otrobanda mansion where guests learn to prepare their own creole meal -including 'arepa di pampuna' with curaçao liqueur sauce (www.angelicas-kitchen.com)

Now, after all these years, I was finally heading for the Mansion Chobolobo Distillery (www.curacaoliqueur.com) creators and sole producers of genuine Curaçao liqueur. Housed in an old 'landhuis' (country house =plantation home) it's an attraction in itself. It was closed in observance of May Day (when most of the world marks Labor Day). My plane departed Curaçao 7AM the next morning.
-Peter Zaremba

Curaçao map insert -polished metal, floor near threshhold of villa 4, Baoase.

www.curacao.com

Back In Action: The Fleshtones return to the stage (or what passes for one) -
May 20; Minneapolis, MN -Lee's
May 21; Mankato MN, -The Sky Lounge w/ The Legendary Stardust Cowboy
May 22; Ossining NY ('A Thousand Years In SingSing'?) a birthday party (you'll know where if you are invited...)

The End Of The Tour

2010-04-13T13:06:00.000-07:00

Sound-check, St. Germain-en-Laye, 03/13/10

Somehow, I've got to get this thing somewhere closer to 'real time'. You know like a real blog with stuff like 'today I walked around the corner to the old 'Palace Cafe' (or the newer 'Brooklyn Standard' coffee house) and there was a hipster from Iowa named 'Chad' there which was remarkable because I don't think there's ever been anyone named Chad in Greenpoint in its 350 year-long history'. Then I could have 'blogged' about a lot of stuff that's been happening: The Fleshtones at the 'all-hands-on-deck' March 27th closing of Artie Fredette's Positively 4th Street in Troy, NY, March 27- perhaps better than any performance we turned in on our just-completed tour. Artie isn't just the life-spring of the Troy music scene, he's one of those people who keeps rock & roll live and alive in this country. We look forward to playing his 'new' old bar/venue The Judge's Inn -and remind me to do a proper write-up on Troy -Uncle Sam's (and Bill Milhizer's) hometown; Although he's long since ceased serving free pierogi, its always nice to chat with Northside pioneer-gallerist/artist Joe Amrhein (who Marilla has shown work with since the 80's) at his opening for artist Dawn Clements at The Boiler Room (www.pierogi2000.com) -it's a spectacular, derelict early industrial space, frighteningly too much like a half -dozen places I've worked in over the years (minus the swell opening night crowds and drinks); the rising anticipation as Easter approaches in Greenpoint, the streets filled with families taking their baskets to the church of St. Stanislaus to be blessed, then serial egg hunts on Easter morning when Sergei was joined by the children of Scott Shiffler and K.K.Kozik, then later with cousins Anna and Sara Palmer.

preparations for Easter, Manhattan Ave, Greenpoint

'Blogging', however, isn't just about being temporarily unemployed, it's a commitment. I have every intention of getting around to the conclusion of The Fleshtones tour, March 2010, as promised. Heaven forbid I garner a reputation for not seeing things through. After all, I never did finish posting about our Spanish odyssey. Like I've said, just too much happens. Let me get back on track. A half a century has past since I was an eager young viewer awaiting each installment of the continuing 'Adventures Of Spunky And Tadpole', so forgive if I don't recall this totally right (people are such sticklers about this stuff these days and I don't want to be flooded with emails) -I remember there was boy and a talking bear-like character thwarting a villain named Crabby Appleton who was deemed 'rotten to the core', spaceships and a submarine-like craft that could drill to the center of the earth (check this on You-tube -ah, instant memories for those with none). The curtains rise in a cartoon theatre, the snippet of bouncy theme music fades away as the narrator intones something like "the last time we left our heros..."

...they were sound-checking in the posh suburbs of Paris. We were certainly finishing off the French portion of our tour in style at La Clef (www.laclef.asso.fr) in St. Germain-en-Laye. The difficulty of a late-night commute back to the city (remember 'Le Dernier Metro') kept a lot of old Parisien friends and fans away, but the hall was still packed. It may sound corny, but it's moving to be able to tell the audience that it's good to be 'home' in Paris and get a wild but sincere ovation. Special thanks to Fabrice for one last big dose of true French hospitality.
Early the next morning we were off, head-long into a grab-bag of Euro-dates -a final trio of shows for a taste of what I used to call a 'Coins Of All Nations' tour because I would wind up coming home with little more than an incoherent pocketful of mutually incompatible (and now quite obsolete) change.

March 14, 2010: Ghent
Our GPS, which obviously doesn't understand Flemish, had trouble guiding us to Flandria (doubles from 50€; Barrestraat 3; www.flandria-centrum.be) an off-beat hotel in a connecting group of old row houses. Narrow halls and small rooms as you would expect in such an old city as Ghent, but a great in-town budget choice recommended by 'Les Routards'. The dense display of Flemish architecture of the city itself brought Barbara Tuchman's 'A Distant Mirror' to mind -a masterful if flawed book, but one that I find myself going back to time and time again.

Ghent: The old ...and the new

With only about an hour to spare before sound-check, Antoine, Justin, Stef and I formed a search party to find a promising 'frites' stand we spied on the drive into town. We were after all, in Belgium. Guided by instinct and years of experience, we took off into the narrow streets, stumbling across Sint-Baafs Cathedral (dating mostly from the 14th century and site of the christening of Emperor Charles V) -a quick stop to admire its satisfyingly macabre statuary, but missed van Eyck's masterpiece 'The Ghent Altarpiece'. More twisting streets and bingo, there was Frituur Bij Sint-Jacobs tucked into a small square as it says 'bij' St. Jacob's Church. "You know people come from all around the world to eat frites here" volunteered a young guy who sensed our obvious foreignness. " You must try the 'stoofvlees' with your frites, it's the speciality".
We labored to get our tongues around the Flemish name of the dish so we could order in style, but the best I could manage sounded more like 'snow flakes'. Being moderate in all things, I ordered a small portion (4.60€), the counterman ladled a glob of rundsstoofvlees (beef stew flesh) over my fries and we're off, eating on the run. Like a snake rattling its dire warning, each bite from the first hissed total indigestibility. I considered the consequences, until I finished the whole thing as we back tracked to a promising bar that we had passed on our convoluted route to the frites stand. Den Turk (Botermarkt 3, http://cafedenturk.be/) turned out to be Ghent's oldest pub, pouring suds since 1228. The crowd of rosy-faced patrons looked like they had been there since then, or at least since the night before. There's always time for a quick beer so we joined them. After all, beer is the wine (well beer really) of the Flemish. We ordered a round of light and refreshing draught Jupiler, (1.25€, 250ml) one of Belgium's excellent mass market brews. Then a dash back to the hotel to gather up the rest of the band(s) for sound-check.In Den Turk

At the show we were visited backstage by long-time Belgian agent/friend Peter Verstraelen who explained 'stoofvlees' was just the Flemish version of the Walloon 'carbonnade' -beef braised in beer, which made perfect sense in linguistically-split Belgium. He also said the show was 'fantastic' (I modestly agree) adding 'too bad there wasn't more people'. True, the turnout could have been better -perhaps because the venue was changed at the last moment (I'm still not sure if we played at Minnemeers or Democrazy) with many concert-goers (including us) showing up at the original hall only to find it closed. Having a ready stock of excuses has pre-disposed me to the business side of what we do.

03/15/10 Hamburg

The Early Beatles, Beatlemania Hamburg Exhibition

long drive across Northern Germany with threatening weather turning to snow...
We checked into Hotel Stadt Altona (doppelzimmers from 65€; www.hotel-stadt-altona.de) an oddly-appealing, 60's-modern place that makes a good base of operations for exploring this wonderful city if you don't mind the odd missing strip of carpet or wall fixture, which I don't. There's traditional (singer) entertainment in the bar and a stuffed monkey, perplexed by its demotion from some long-gone elaborate tropical tableaux, clings to a remnant of branch stuck into a flower pot in the lobby. Hamburg has a lot to offer: an anthropological museum with a great African and New Guinean collection from Germany's brief days as a colonial power, as well as cruises (summer, please) to Heligoland, a North Sea island almost (literally) bombed beneath the waves by the British (www.helgoline.de). But the real attraction is Hamburg itself -the quintessential seaport, its miles of docks bristling with derricks and loading cranes pulsating with activity around the clock. A constant parade of vessels, from harbor patrol boats to the most massive container ships, glided within yards of our large dressing room windows. You can almost picture pre-war matinee idol Hans Albers haunting its misty, wet streets (outside of Germany he's best remembered for 'Munchhausen', 1943 -obliviously not one of his 'Hamburg' films). A non-stop entrepôt for influences from around the world, Hamburg is just the environment to incubate a phenomena like The Beatles. They might have been from Liverpool, but The Beatles who took the world by storm were truly born In Hamburg, where The Fab Five became The Fab Four, absorbing the rough sounds, styles and most importantly -the mop-top haircuts of German youth in rebellion against their war-generation parents. Their formative years here has given rise to a modest industry with tours and exhibitions (www.beatlemania-hamburg.com) -give me a report if you go. We were once taken on our own Magical Mystery tour through Hamburg's funky Reppersbahn district, starting in the shadow of the massive St. Pauli Girl Brewery and visiting the Fab Four's old haunts, including what was the Star-Club (which had evolved into a disco, naturally enough) and standing on the Star-Club's original stage, which had been salvaged and brought to a new location after a fire. Appropriately for Hamburg, the stage was nothing more than a stack of shipping pallets (for an idea of the kind of energy Hamburg generated in rock & roll's early years check out Joe Bonomo's book 'Jerry Lee Lewis Lost & Found', inspired by the live album 'The Killer' recorded at the Star-Club on April 15, 1964; by the way, Joe is also author of 'Sweat' , the epic tome on yours truly The Fleshtones; www.continuumbooks.com). The spirit still permeates the salty old city -fueled by local 'Astra' beer and 'korn', the crowd and both bands at the appropriately funky Hafenklang (www.hafenklang.org) had a blast, despite it being a Monday night. I even got in a bit of audience surfing.
The Bellrays, Hamburg

Eindhoven 03/16/10
The public goes wild for Blood Red Shoes at Eifenaar

We arrived in Eindhoven for the unthinkable -a sorely needed night off. I think I've been missing the boat on Dutch cooking on all my visits to The Netherlands, so I won't venture any opinions. We had a passable dinner at 'Wok Paradijs' -a huge all-you-can-eat-if you-dare Mongolian barbeque/wok/buffet type of joint. I also won't bother with an address or webpage, there are places like this all over The Netherlands. Then we went to next night's venue, Effenaar (www.effenaar.nl) to see the English duo Blood Red Shoes. Antoine noted that it was little more than a year ago when The Shoes opened (third on the bill) when he was road-managing for Andre Williams. Now they utterly packed the place, singing resentful lyrics about personal problems to simple 'Velvets-like' riffs. They were what I call 'new English' -no snotty chip on the shoulder routine, in fact, almost 'American' in their personability and appearance. Nice actually. Very little energy needed to emanate from the stage -that was provided by the audience, who went totally berserk for them. I was glad we would be playing the much smaller 'Effenaar Cafe' room the next night.

Effenaar: the long climb to the top, or at least the dressing room. I later discovered there was an elevator...

Being in The Netherlands, there was a lot of interest in the particularly Dutch phenomena of the 'coffee shop' -a euphemism for a place who's main line of business is legally selling marijuana products with 'brand names' like Super Silver Haze, not expresso. Interested parties were directed to The Grasshopper (www.coffeeshopgrasshopper.nl). My interest was strictly touristic -allergies cause marijuana to make my very skin crawl as if it was being rubbed with cats. I didn't notice the coffee but marijuana tea went for 1.50€ a glass.

The Grasshopper

03/17/10
When our turn came at Effenaar everything was wonderfully professional, which counts for a lot after two weeks of constant travel and playing. Once more performing with The Bellrays was a complete pleasure for all. The next day, past windmills, over drainage ditches and canals through the flat, very suburban Dutch countryside, Ken drove us up to Amsterdam's mega-airport at Schiphol for our flight back home.
The Bellrays had left early, heading off for appearances at SXSW. Although we were among the first bands to play Austin's increasingly unwieldy music event, we haven't bothered with South By Southwest in decades. There's just not much point in trying to squeeze in a 'showcase' amid the jostling multitude of groups and performers that descend on Austin each March (It's more fun to attend, you've got every band in the world falling over each other vying for your attention). We'll hit Texas this summer with our friends The Ugly Beats, when it's the way we like it -nice and hot, although I'll miss dipping down into Mexico. We've always been big border-town boosters, but sadly now is not the time for any such dipping.

Now The Fleshtones are out of action until mid-May. Keith and Bill, along with our old comrade-in-arms Paul Johnson (ex-Waxing Poetics for all you from Tidewater) and dictator of The Dictators Andy Shernoff, however, will be out playing as The Master Plan. Check the Fleshtones websites for dates and venues.

Easter morning, 2010

I've Been Meaning to Get To This...

2010-03-17T10:13:00.000-07:00

France
(backstage -Le VIP, St-Nazaire)

On tour with The Bellrays -and a lot has been happening.
03/05/10 6AM
Air France flight 0023 (in-flight service, see: www.zaremblog@.....) After over-nighting it pinned into economy class, I arrived at Paris's Charles de Gaulle International Airport, unheralded and unwelcomed. Not that I wasn't welcome, just that the band had arrived the day before and no one was at the airport to meet me. Well, we've been coming to France long enough for me to be able to find my way into town. I had a pocketful of Euro-change from previous trips, so I opted to take the RER train running directly from the airport to Paris. At 8.50E including transfer to the Paris Metro, it can't be beat -unless by a fistful of cash and a taxi. I made the 35 minute trip on the RER suburban train with the rush hour commuters heading for the Gare du Nord, where I switched to the Paris Metro, two stops on the 4 Line, then 1 stop on the 2 Line. No running for trains, no dramas. Miss a train and there's another right behind it, then another. How unlike New York, where experience has taught straphangers to hurl themselves at every departing train as if it might be the last. Anyway, within minutes I was climbing out of the Anvers Metro station. I walked one block up towards the stairs to the Sacre Coeur, then left half a block to our favorite hotel in Paris, the Bearnais, where I could finally crawl into bed -for all of 95 minutes.

The Hotel Bearnais (13 rue d'Orsel, Paris 75018) is one of the best bargains in the French capital -not that this homey (and homely) hotel would suit everyone's tastes. Rooms are sparely, almost monastically, furnished, with the hotel exuding a faint vibe of an old-style Paris tenement. That's its greatest charm. Throw open your windows on a warm day If you've got a room in the back, or in the building in the courtyard, Lie on the bed and listen in on the neighborhood -radios, parents admonishing their children, or students at their music lesions -sort of a 18th arrondissement 'Rear Window'. If you're sticking around, I'd also recommend visits to the Sewers Of Paris Museum, the Catacombs and trying to find the apartment that houses the super-eccentric shine to Edith Piaf in Ménilmontant, if its owner hasn't been hauled off somewhere by now. Of course, none of this makes any difference, we've got to hit the road to make the first of a series of early 'load-ins' and sound-checks. Our French agent Jean-Luc Jousse will drive us to St-Nazaire where we'll meet up with road manager Antoine Bucieck and The Bellrays, who had gotten a jump on the tour by playing the night before in Brest.

Antoine Bucieck, road manager

Breathe easy (especially British readers -those comments didn't get past me) I'm not going to lay too many descriptions of lavish meals or hotels on you. I can say a lot of the hotels are brand new, comfortable but generic and inexpensive. That's fine. They're usually located in commercial zones outside whatever city attractions there may be, often a considerable distance from the night's venue. The treatment of a touring band in France, however, is humane. More than often it's exceptional. Still, a schedule such as ours can't help but guarantee a rapid succession of early departures, monotonous hours in the van followed by lengthly sound-checks and fitful sleep -punctuated by glimpses of magnificent scenery and exhilarating performances. This is in no way a complaint, as you will soon see. Just saying that although we are on tour, we're not tourists. I'd try to give more shape to what could be a disjointed narrative, but what's the use if that's how it actually feels anyway?

The Bellrays, no worse for wear...

I believe it was Jean-Luc's idea that we join forces with Riverside, California's Bellrays (www.thebellrays.com), a proposal we readily endorsed. With Lisa Kekaula's rabble-rousing, soulful vocalizing -"Come on, People!!!", and Bob Vennum's heavy Detroit-style guitar, powered by an unstoppable rhythm section of head-hitting Stefan Litrownik (drums) and Justin Andres (bass), The Bellrays deliver an explosive performance -everynight.
You probably already know what I'm talking about. If not, you really should check out their most recent release 'Hard, Sweet & Sticky' (2008). When they get back to California they'll be mixing at Barefoot Studio in LA, so they should have a new release soon (which reminds me, the only thing I've been mixing lately are cocktails, we're overdue to go into the studio ourselves). I'd like to think that our energy and élan (since we are in France) feed off of each other very well. Anyway, this has made not just for a good double bill, but good travel companions, important when sharing dressing rooms and a 9-seat VW 'Crafter TDI' (that's not an airplane). Quiet Bob would usually 'coop' in the shelf-like bed at the rear of the passenger cabin, while Lisa's laugh would provide a welcome lift when everyone else's voice said 'fatigue'. Stef' and Justin just always seemed interested -upbeat and ready for action.

Le VIP, St-Nazaire
Strategically positioned on the Bay of Biscay, St-Nazaire is best known as the port where the Germans based their U-boat 'wolf packs' that prowled the Atlantic for Allied shipping. The bomb-proof U-Boat pens, with meter-thick walls of reinforced concrete, would have been next to impossible to demolish, so creative uses had to be found for them after Jerry left town. One creative use is as a music venue and we found ourselves 'loading in' to 'Le VIP' through an immense steel door. I couldn't help thinking that this impervious portal would be the last that many submarine crews would pass through -a gateway to an eternity at the bottom of the sea.

03/06/10: At 9AM we were already on our way to nearby La Rochelle. Its beautiful harbor had been fortified in earlier times against corsairs, pirates and the English (very often the same thing). There's be no time for any of that now either, but we had made a point of seeing the old port on a previous trip. Although there certainly would be a lot of traveling as we ping-ponged around the six corners of France, this trip wasn't shaping up to be offering much in the way of tourism. We were here to play -at Salle Georges Brassens (rue du 8 Mai 1945, 17440 Aytré). It's a great night, boosted by the manic energy of The Detroit 7 -a trio -from Japan.

03.07/10: Bergerac is the largest wine region in the southwest, if not in all of France. It's proud of its sturdy output and substantial food that goes so well with it. It's Sunday afternoon and the city is shut like a clam -in solid, old French fashion. We wonder if anyone will be venturing out for the show. We're pleased to find our hotel is a few minutes walk from the venue: Hotel Le Family (3 rue du Dragon, Place du Marche Couvert; doubles 36E 'basse' season, 40E 'haute'; petit dejeuner -6.50E; 33 (0)5 53578090) in a tiny lane of ancient half-timbered homes. Eccentric as most medieval my room (#6) tucked under the garret, had no windows, but it did have an extra loft-bed with a sky-light above it. Run by a hospitable older couple, I'm sure you can get a nice local meal in the attached 'Restaurant Le Jardin Epicure -but not this time around. Keep it in mind if ever in the city of Cyrano of the super-Gallic nose. That night at 'Rocksane' (14 rue Pozzi, 24100 Bergerac) we draw a good crowd from all across southwest France and singer Amy Rigby, who now lives a few hours away, drops by to say 'hi'. After the show we luck out and enjoy a regional dinner that included a hearty (well, grizzardy, really) -'salade de gesiers' washed down with a variety of Bererac wines. Medium-long drive tomorrow through the steep hills of 'deep France'.

03/08/10: Across the 'massif central'
In the distance to the south we could see a bizarre collection of ancient volcanos, their long-extinct craters highlighted by coats of snow. I could easily imagine them percolating molten rock up through the earth's skin in some long past eon. Then past Clermont-Ferrand, where Pope Urban II called the First Crusade in 1095, and then Thiers, famous for its scissors. Soon we were crossing the extensive suburbs of France's second city -Lyons. Tonight's show, also the suburbs -CCO Villeurbane (39 rue Georges Courteline, 69100 Villeurbanne).

03/09/10: Drive to Marseille: snow...
Two days previously, an unexpected blizzard had blanketed our route as far south as Avignon, causing major disruptions then, but -now were flying past a dream-like landscape - the snow-covered hillside vineyards of Cotes Du Rhone and white blossom-covered fruit trees stark against the white fields. Then through some tunnels cut through equally white marble mountains and into the middle of scruffy Marseille. Spilling over steep hills and peaks hard against the Mediterranean Sea, Marseille is one of France's most colorful cities, in many ways because it is the least 'French' by way of mass immigration from North Africa. Anyway, it's has always been a portal to the east, or more accurately an outpost of it, since it was established by the Phoenicians at the dawn of recorded history. Our hotel is right in town -good, another 'outpost' -this time the local Hotel Gens De La Mer (www.gensdelamer.fr), catering as the name implies, to a sea-going clientele. Unlike most of Marseille, it's orderly and tidy, making it a good retreat from the sometimes overwhelming local 'color'. The Gens De La Mer has a 'Seaman's Club' as well as a few other pleasant maritime flourishes (the breakfast buffet is set up in a large model 'dory'). From here, the friendly girl at the desk says it's only a 15 minute walk to Marseilles 'Vieux Port' -the very definition of 'picturesque'. Sailboats, yachts and fishing craft bob at anchor, while a quayside table is the perfect place to at least pretend to enjoy the local obsession -pastis. You can forget the over-priced bouillabaisse (or not), but on the walk back to the hotel stop at one of the stands where they'll cut you some pizza with huge scissors and douse it with red pepper-infused oil if you wish -excellent. I have time for none of any of this, but it's nice to know it's out there. Most of our time would be spent at the venue 'Le Cabaret Aléatoire (Friche la Belle de Mai 4 rue Jobin, 13003 Marseille; http://www.cabaret-aleatoire.com/cabaret/) lost inside a cavernous former industrial complex of some sort. I have no idea what was once made there, but it must have been big. On the grounds there was one of those skate-board ramps under a big electric sign that read 'Skateboarding Is Not A Crime!' -in English. Well, if someone IS going to arrest them, at least they'll know where to find them. After a lengthly and perhaps pointless sound-check, we trudge up to the second level where there was a very student-y restaurant/cafe in a huge hall. A mass meeting was going on, with several speakers fielding questions about the city's role as Cultural Capital of Europe, I believe for 2013. It was all civil and intellectual enough, but I was waiting for the inevitable disruptive attendee to let loose. I didn't have to wait long. One guy launched a fusillade of heated questions that quickly intensified into accusatory shouts. The speaker politely fended off his taunts until the guy had to be hauled off screaming "jamais! jamais! jamais!" Now I was starting to enjoy the place. The disruptive inquisitor spent the rest of the evening cheerfully drinking wine on the huge concrete terrace. It was all so satisfyingly French. Even more than our meal, except for the tapenade that came with the bread -a nice provençal touch.

Catching up on a national obsession: Johnny Hallyday's life has completely changed since the coma.

03/10/10: Dijon, marvelous seat of the dukes of Burgundy. Oddly enough, one city where in all our years in France, that we have never played. Consult 'Lonely Planet France' for all the fabulous medieval stuff we have no time to see. Forget it, the Burgundians instigated the burning of Joan of Arc so I'm leaving.

Tomorrow: Reims, city of Kings and Champagne!

Morning 03/11/10: Wake up to find Dijon covered in snow. I didn't mean to give such short-shift to Dijon -the show at 'La Vapeur' (42 avenue de Stalingrad, 21000 Dijon) was really a blast. And I got over the Joan of Arc thing long ago, although I was mightily pissed off about it when I was a kid. We just didn't see anything in Dijon, and there's lots. Mostly we're doing a lot of coming and going. My lapses of sleep are shattered by flashes of dreams, some of them quite funny, like me having a very cagey conversation with Kevin Connolly of HBO's 'Entourage' , about what he could do to help The Fleshtones, both of us knowing all the while that he's an actor who just plays a manager. Some certainly not all that funny at all -like biding my time below deck in one of the stricken ships at Pearl Harbor while it floods with water (hmm, could it have been playing with The Detroit 7 in La Rochelle? -no, that's too obvious). Some dreams are mournful little dramas-laden with painfully clumsy and obvious symbolism-
My family and I are on the banks of the Hudson at Tappan Zee, only it's so wide we can't see the other side. I doubt if he wants it any more, so I carelessly ride my son's tricycle to where it gets stuck in the mud flats. Someone calls attention to the pet crab (with an oddly familiar name) that seems to live on a large, rough stone pedestal between the water and the open french doors of the grand house, but it scuttles down the back of the stone. What kind of a pet can a crab make anyhow? I suddenly realize the tricycle is being tossed into the back of a tow-truck. I go running after the truck, screaming for them too stop, but they're too far ahead of me and they drive off into the endless streets of Chicago. I'll have to track them down somehow, but the students are hardly interested. They're guiding me through their exhibit of model 'assisted' living' solutions -sort of like those mazes of mock bedroom and living-room set-ups they used to have in big department stores -only stark and painted with these bold black and white patterns. They're even got a few real 'social work' case-subjects sitting around 'in situ' to demo how the living would be done. They want me to stay for this evening's reception, but I've got to get out and find my wife and child somehow...
Armchair analysts have fun, but stuff like that makes waking up a pleasure, even if soaked in one's own sweat.

Reims...

Reims catches a lot of flak in France, especially from 'rockers'. It's considered snooty and bourgeois, perhaps epitomized by its delicate specialties like 'bisquits rose' from the matronly Fossier cookie shop and of course -its champagne. In other words, it's a pretty neat place. Apparently it was pretty swank in ancient times as well, the Romans left a triumphal arch, now much eroded, here as a mark of their regard. Our accommodations, the 'Grand' Hotel du Nord (•• doubles. from 65E, low season; 71E high, 33 (0) 3 26493903) is right on a main pedestrian-only thoroughfare leading to a column topped with a graceful golden angel (look for the carvings of grapevines that circle the column) and only about a 10 minute walk to the cathedral. Although now strictly two star, it does recall a hard to define past age of mock-elegance with touches like rooms with padded doors. When were padded doors elegant anyway? ('elegant' is a word seldom used in connection with Maspeth, but we had a swinging door between our kitchen and living room that was padded in cordovan naugahyde when I was very little. That would have been in the mid-50's). There's a (mass market) bottler of champagne -Castelnau, right outside our dressing room window at La Cartonnerie (84 rue du Docteur Lemoine, 51100 Reims), with the gray bulk of the cathedral in the distance. The room itself is decked out with silver-leafed chairs and sofas, a flourish of faux-elegance that would have met the approval of Napoleon III himself. I didn't want to rattle on too much about back-stage catering in France, but it is such an outstanding feature of touring in this country. In fact, when a 'Fleshtones' line of high-quality French sunglasses were launched a few years back, one of the four styles available was called 'catering', the word coming to include the back-stage scene as well as food. So here goes: Grand vin de Bordeaux 'Clos l'Hermitage LaLande de Pomerol' 2004 (substantial); a buffet froid of roasted chicken 'drumettes', 'russian' and noodle salads swimming in mayonnaise, carrottes rappée, julienne celeriac, cole slaw, mesclun with vinaigrette, cornichons, olives; a cheese plate of brie, emmenthal, chevre and (ask cheese fanatic Keith the name of that other cheese.....); charcuterie including chorizo, jambon sec, jambon bayonne, sauissison sec, sopressato, saussison d'ail; various 'individual servings' of puddings and yogurts; a fruit bowl with kiwis, bananas, apples and four kinds of pears; baguettes, rolls and crackers, candies and chocolate bars -and a bowl of popcorn. That was just for the 'load-in''. later that night their were additions of hot dishes like salmon lasagna al forno, shrimp, ratatouille, rotini, potato and courgette au gratin, tomato farci, steak au poive and a freshly baked gateau au noix.
Actually, I dislike eating before a show. Reims native and friend Jean-Marc Rimette's band The Volfonis opened the show. Keith and I joined them for an encore -a rendition of The Easy Beat's 'Women' by way of The Plimsouls. Reims lives up to expectations, and the night is toasted with champagne (Honoré LeBlanc 'Premiér Cru Brut', Tauxieres) after the show.

03/12/10: I took a morning walk with Antoine to find the house where he spent the first year of his life, then a very quick look at the cathredral where every king of France was crowned until the Revolution. Then a gray, drizzling drive to Calais where I'm sure The English Channel will offer even more leaden gray, only in opaque, liquid form. Hours in a van whizzing by a wealth of sights leaves a lot of time for catching up on reading about something else. I finished Jonathan Letham's 'Motherless Brooklyn' (Vintage Books, 1999). I especially enjoyed the book's Brooklyn settings, although for some reason I didn't realize the writing would be so, well, 'fictional'. More grounded in hard reality, and played out in settings we were now entering was the next book I tackled: Holgar H. Herwig's new tome 'The Marne 1914 (Random House, 2009) on the first battle of that name (the unimaginative concept of the 'sequel' seemed to have been born in World War I, there would be several other equally futile bloodbaths by the same title, with increasing budgets of hundreds of thousands of lives each). Style-wise, it's pretty pedestrian, but the reader can't help but be blasted along by the shear drama of the events it relates -It certainly gave a bit of insight into the true value of the real estate we were traversing so easily. In fact, there goes the real Marne right now, crossed in a matter of seconds. I never did managed to glean much from my Grandfather Peter Zaremba about his, or his brother's, experiences during the Great War, except for him to dismissively say that he '"turned big potatoes into small ones" -a reference to 'KP' duty that was over the head of this eager young listener. I remember asking him if he saw any Austrians there. Now why would he be running into Austrians on the western front unless he managed to get himself mighty lost while concentrating on those potatoes? The questions that enthusiastic kids ask. What ever my grandfather said (or didn't say) -he and his brothers did bring back medals. My other grandfather, who they called Harry, was born right after The Civil War, so he was too old for WWI.
Pulling into Calais, we pass bunch of re-enforced concrete bunkers, German contributions to the town's architectural diversity, then a wall painted with a fading 'Dubonnet' sign -the only one we've seen on the whole trip. Soon this one will probably be gone as well. This aperitif (as well as the entire concept of one) used to be pretty ubiquitous stuff, even in 'The States'. I remember the radio ads with the very French voice intoning : "du, du bonne, Dubonnet..." but then again I remember radio jingles for stuff like 'Rose-X' and that it 'germ-proofed'.

After centuries of being on the way to someplace else, Calais immediately gives you the feeling that it's the sort of place where no one stays, useless your car has broken down, or you missed the ferry -or you happen to be playing that night at the 'Centre Cultural Gérard Philipe'. In keeping with Calais raison d'etre as object of, or staging point, of invasions, a contingent of English friends were popping over for the show, like Steve Coleman, who handles our 'Fleshtones Hall Of Fame' website -a lonely calling for an Englishman -you'd think he' d be a lighthouse keeper if they were still such a position. Like every night so far on the tour, everyone seemed to have a great time, even if the atmosphere was a bit strange - the security being rather heavy-handed for your typical Bellrays-Fleshtones crowd. But I guess they know what they're usually dealing with or they wouldn't go through the expense of hiring guys with attack-dogs -unless they thought they'd be needed to deal with guys like Jean-Marc Rimette (who decided to drive up from Reims for the show) or unassuming Englishmen like Steve Coleman.
Lisa was delighted that we were staying at a 'Campanile' -an affordable chain of motels with just enough French touches to remind you where you are (doubles from 69E; www.campanile.com). Actually, after a week of constant on the go, sometimes you can do without the 'charm'. You just need a warm, hypo-allergenic place to fall asleep for a few hours. Those hours just having been slept, I'm having my 'petit déjeuner' -crepes with jam and 'frommage blanc' with honey -a few of those French touches I mentioned. There's an aggressively up-beat DJ on the radio, then traffic reports, not quite the French 'morning zoo'. Soon we'll pile back into the van for the drive to posh St. Germain en Laye -almost Paris -for the last French show of the tour. Keith and I will join The Bellrays on a version of 'I Don't Need On Doctor' a la Humble Pie that they've worked up for tonight. And we've got a surprise for Antoine. On stage we will present (and embarrass him) with an official 'Johnny Hallyday' cigarette case. The audience will probably hate it. Our French friends just can't get enough distance from Johnny to enjoy him. Outside the window the sun is struggling to break though.
-Peter Zaremba

la boite a cigarettes de 'Johnny' -official

next: The tour continues -Ghent, Hamburg and Eindhoven.

I'll Take Sweden...

2010-02-28T17:45:00.000-08:00

-The Fleshtones present Stockholm Super Rock Weekend, February 12-13, 2010

"I'll Take Sweden -Ja Ja Ja" -Frankie Avalon, 1965

02/11/10 morning
Peter Ingvarsson met us at Arlanda Airport to drive us into town -snow-covered countryside, pine trees, congealing suburbs and then we're in the middle of it all -Stockholm the splendid, Stockholm the icy beautiful, it's golden-topped 17th and 18th century spires and palaces arrayed, Canada-like, across rocky islets and narrow inlets -one of Europe's most gorgeous cities. However I'm having trouble figuring out my new Olympus Fe46 pocket camera. I'll cover for the total lack of pictures by declaring that no photo could do the scene justice.
My internal jukebox was on continuous loop -selection: the theme to 'I'll Take Sweden' the 1965 Bob Hope/Tuesday Weld/Frankie Avalon romp -naturally filmed mostly amid the ersatz Scandinavian splendor of Arrowhead Lake, California (the kind of Hollywood shoddiness that infuriated me as a kid, but I now find reassuring. Besides what's the use of actually going all the way to Sweden when you can drive from Hollywood to Arrowhead Lake in a hour? They weren't exactly working on another '7th Seal' -in the end a good thing. Bergman's black comedy is widely misunderstood and thus over-rated. I've always preferred 'The Virgin Spring'). Avalon always did seem like an odd candidate to ship off to a celluloid Sweden, but the studio was casting about for new horizons for our beach-movie veteran (that in itself an odd juxtaposition -the diminutive Philly-born teen idol somehow coming to represent the sunny blondness of the southern Cali surf-scene) as well as for Hope. Hope does better, at least conceptually, in his next feature foray, when he gets to team up with Phillis Diller. Frankie had to wait until 1966 to beat the shit out of his perennial antagonist, the great Harvey Lembeck, when Avalon's roles took a dramatic (and ludicrous) turn in 'Fireball'. If you don't count Avalon, director Frank De Cordova didn't even take the trouble to 'Swede up' the cast of 'I'll Take Sweden' with conscripts from Hollywood's stock of professional Scandinavians. Greta Garbo had long since fled into seclusion. Too bad Warner Oland, the fine Swedish actor who had found fame via his uncanny portrayal of Charlie Chan on the silver screen (back then everyone knew that you couldn't cast actual Chinese actors to play themselves on screen -they just weren't believable) had died back in 1938. Today that wouldn't be a problem -just think of the spate of living /posthumous team-ups -recording duets with ghoulish videos to match. But who, in this day and age, would venture the financial backing necessary to digitally add Oland to 'I'll Take Sweden', and to what ends? 'Authenticity'? You'd think there'd be at least a few billion for that very purpose buried somewhere in last year's 'stimulus' package, but like a lot else we'll probably never know. The wonders that God, and Hollywood, hath wrought. Here I was walking the same slushy cobblestones that Frankie Avalon would have walked, if only he made it any closer to Stockholm than the studio back-lots that United Artists had rented out for the filming in LA. Imagine that. No, I actually wasn't imagining that, but like I said, Frankie's recording of 'I'll Take Sweden' was bouncing around in my head -"ja -ja -ja".

Hotel Anno 1647: The Netherlands Embassy in the background

Shooting across numerous bridges, then thorough tunnels bored through the dark bedrock of the islands, we soon we arrived at our hotel. Contrary to what I've said about Scandinavian hotels being short on charm, Hotel Anno 1647 (www.anno1647.se) serves it up in spades. This 'boutique property' had caught my eye on my previous walks through Stockholm's old districts. Tucked down a narrow side-street right off of the busy Gotgaten, the 'Anno' is conveniently located near the Slussen Metro and within steps of The Netherlands embassy. Too bad I'm not Dutch. My passport is running out of space and I thought that it would be easier to have pages added to it at an American Embassy in a foreign capital rather than mailing it in and waiting weeks back in The States. I should have made my move in quiet Oslo. So instead of taking my cue from Bill Milhizer and visiting the (very interesting) Nobel Museum (yes, the gift-shop does sell dynamite-shaped licorice sticks) or even the City Of Stockholm Museum right next door, I figured I'd trek over to the other side of the city (lots of water in between) and avail myself of our country's crack diplomatic service. The Nobel Museum might have been more enticing if they had jazzed up the exhibit with life-sized wax figures of some of the prize's extraordinary recipients -say Al Gore or Bill Clinton. The desk clerk at Anno 1647 connected me to the American Embassy, or move specifically, their computerized telephone obstacle course. I finally gleaned that the passport services branch was open Mon, Wed, and Thursdays: hours (I think) 9:30AM to 2:30PM. The recording also teases callers with the possibility of reaching a real human being, rattling off another number and stating the hours when someone would actually answer the phone -being those same days (or was it only Monday and Wednesday?) from 1PM to 2PM. It was worth the call just to know that. I wasn't going to waste the afternoon, plus Skr40 each way for the ferry (not to mention a long walk on icy un-shoveled sidewalks) to be turned away by my own Embassy. Anyway, Anno 1647 is an extremely pleasant place to be awarded a bit of down time. There's a nice sidewalk cafe (summers!), you can catch a bit of 'Larry King Live' on CNN (Larry's focus was on Bill Clinton and his emergency heart surgery of the previous day -although he did not have Clinton on as a guest, he did interview a surgeon who sounded remarkably like the ex-president) and enjoy a Scandinavian-style breakfast buffet each morning while silent newsreel images of everyday life in Stockholm from the 50's go by on a large screen. As it is with most centuries-old urban structures, the hotel's guest rooms are quite tiny. You can say this does 'concentrate' the charm factor, but they are still tiny (we had to utilize a 'murphy bed' in our room). I could picture the rooms housing delegations of Lapps to the Royal Court in olden times.

That evening, we headed over to the rehearsal space of weekend co-hosts 'Stupidity' (www.stupidity.se) who would be lending us their back-line for the show as well, thanks guys -and gal! We don't often need to rehearse (we've been playing since 1976) but we did need to go over the songs we'd be doing on Saturday's 'horn night' with Magus, Stupidity's veteran tenor sax man and Tony, a young but enthusiastic trumpet player. Although an important part of our 'act' for many years, we haven't played with a brass section in over a decade (or more). It was fun to be able to play a lot of these songs again at full strength.

The Pelikan.
Although the posters graciously credited The Fleshtones with presenting Stockholm's first Super Rock Weekend, the whole affair was the brainchild and hard work of Peter Ingvarsson of ConnectPR (www.connectpr.se). Since the venue was going to provide us with dinner on the next two nights when we'd be performing, tonight Peter was going to take us to the 'Pelikan' (www.pelikan.se) for some old-fashioned Swedish home-cooking. Occupying a succession of locations since the 1600's, the Pelikan settled into a bastion-like structure in the heart of the 'Sodermalm' district at the previous turn of the century. There's a large, hall-like 'jugend' style dining room with soaring 18 foot-high ceilings, while the adjacent bar/lounge offers a more contemporary ambience with dark blue walls and the soft glow of crystal chandeliers. Stuck to the dining room ceiling amid the paintings of frolicking monkeys there's a king of hearts. How the card got there is the subject of much conjecture, but it's been there a very long time. We conjectured over what to order: herring? -manditory, and the best excuse to drink aquavit; grilled arctic char with 'creamed cépe' -SKr218; thin-sliced, 12-hour-roasted elk with pickled chantarelles and potato au gratin -SKr232 or other typically Scandinavian fare. Peter 'I' ordered meatballs -always a wise choice. I always go for the most basic dish of all, 'pyttipanna' -SKr140 -a hearty, one-skillet dose of meat, potatoes and onions topped with a fried egg. Mix in the accompanying beets and you've got our red-flannel hash. Of course, you could always have the lasagna -Skr198. Too bad no one had room for the cloudberry parfait in waffle-cone -SKr88 for dessert. My notes recorded that there was a 'good wine list' and of course lots of aquavit, although the stylish crowd in the lounge will have none of that.
Afterward, we hit some nightspots for some last-minute 'spreading the word' about the impending Super Rock Weekend. First, we took an elevator up to the glass-walled Och Himlen Dantill (www.restauranghimlen.se) an ultra-contemporary, glass-walled bar with panoramic views from the 25th floor of one of the city's tallest buildings; then nightcap(s) at former biker bar -the highly aromatic Broderna Olssons (Olsson Brothers) -'a kitchen full of garlic & a bar loaded with 101 shots' (www.garlicandshots.com) As much as I love garlic, I steered clear of the infused shots.

You can always learn something new.

Kagelbanan Mosebacke & Sonda Teatern, Stockholm.

Peter had decided upon an unusual venue for The Super Rock Weekend -the 'Kagelbanen Mosebacke' -a classic example of cast-iron architecture that's chiseled into a stone hillside underneath (and is part of) the old Sodra Theatre complex (www.sodrateatern.com). The next day, after a lengthy but painless sound-check, we climbed a snowy iron staircase to the upper terrace, then up some more narrow flights of stairs in the main theatre building to the 'Mosebeacke establissement' (www.mosebacke.se) -a 'cabaré' and intimate dining room with fantastic harbor/city views. The walls in the bar were covered with 8X10's of the stars of Swedish stage and screen that have, and continue to, perform here. The club also hosts various music and dance events like 'Studio Blacknuss Night'. On the small stage they were setting up for a 'punk' show -but we would have other fish to fry that night. We did have time for a cocktail. There amid the rows of small bottles of mixers behind the bar, I spotted something called 'Russian Water'. Noticing me curiously eyeing the bottle, the smartly turned-out bartender obligingly opened one for me (good bartender!) to sample. Hmmm, faintly pear and perhaps quinine flavored -and clear, like tonic water. Later, I found out the the Schweppes version is pink. The bartender explained it was an essential component of a 'Vodka Russian', a standard drink everywhere in Scandinavia. How that fact escaped me in our many trips to this part of the world is beyond me. Naturally, I tried one. Then it was time for The Super Rock Weekend to get underway.

Swedish rock & roll paragons The Nomads receive the Super Rock 'lifetime achivement' Award. photo: Vibeke Saugestad

A lot happened. Besides The Fleshtones and Stupidity playing both nights, Friday included performances by Kilroy and 'action rock' progenitors 'The Nomads'. History of sorts was made on stage when we presented The Nomads with the (over 1kg of solid brass) Super Rock Life-time Achivement Award -the only other band besides ourselves ever to be so honored. The event was duly noted in the morning papers (actually, Caroline Andersen and Morten Henrikssen had purchased the award from the guys at the dump in Moss for NKr100 on the condition that we use it to convince The Nomads to play the House Of Rock -which I hope we did). Magnus Carlson of The Weeping Willows joined us for 'Girl From Baltimore' and 'Screaming Skull'.

The Cocktail Slippers: Off-stage...

...and on.

Alhambra kicked off Saturday night's action, The Cocktail Slippers popped over from Norway and we backed Karin Wistland of 80's Swedish rock sensation 'Lolita Pop' on 'Born To Be Wild' as well as Eddie Cochran's ever appropriate 'Come On Everybody' (the first time we'd ever played either song). Between 'sets' DJs Robert Johnson of The Punchdrunks and Måns Månsson of The Maggots kept the music coming, assisted by Brock from Copenhagen's Mau Mau Club. There were even screenings of Geoffrey Barbier's Fleshtones documentary 'Pardon Us For Living'. Again, thanks to Peter Ingvarsson, and a lot of others including ticket-holders who came from as far away as Italy and yes, even Britain. I was worried about 'over-exposure', but even the Saturday matinee to benefit the international foundation 'Fountain House' was a blast -check out their good work on their website (www.fountainhouse) and help them out if you can.

Good Guys Don't Wear White: Keith Streng guests with Stupidity -photo: Vibeke Saugestad.

Now I'm looking out my window back in Greenpoint. By God, it's snowing -again. This weekend we'll be heading up to Lakeville, CT to celebrate our son Sergei's birthday with a few of his friends. He's turning teenager. I'll never forget the dread that that word struck me with when I was a little kid -'teenager...'
The Fleshtones will be touring (France plus) starting next week with the fabulous Bellrays. Here's where we'll be:

Fri March 5 St Nazaire, France -L'Escale
Sat March 6 La Rochelle, France -MJC
Sun March 7 France Bergerac, France -Roxanne
Mon March 8 Lyon, France -CCO
Tues March 9 Marseille, France - Cabaret Sauvage
Wed March 10 Dijon, France -La Vapeur
Thu March 11 Reims, France -La Cartonnerie
Fri March 12 Calais, France -Salle Gerard Philippe
Sat March 13 St. Germain en Laye, France -La Clef
Sun March 14 Ghent, Belgium -Domocrazy
Mon March 15 Hamburg, Germany -Hafenklang
Wed March 17 Eindhoven, The Netherlands -Effeenar
Hope you can make it!
-Peter Zaremba

"Top Of the World, Ma!" (well, almost...)

2010-02-17T17:07:00.000-08:00

James Cagney, White Heat -Warner Bros, 1949

02/05/10 Norway
It was pitch dark by the time our almost two hour flight north from Oslo landed in Tromsø, Norway. Too bad, surrounded by magnificent snow covered mountains (this time of year) the approach is quite a sight. The first time we landed here, nearly two years ago, it was a brilliantly clear autumn day. I could see farms clinging to the shores of a maze of long-armed fiords with translucent, almost Caribbean-looking waters -I say almost. I don't know why, but I was surprised to see trees, although the tree-line was extremely low -they abruptly thinned out and disappeared just above the town.
We weren't going to get to spend as much time here as we would have liked (although due to unexpected snow it almost wound up being a lot more than planned). Lovers of way-out places, the band had already fallen in love with Norway's ninth largest city on our first visit -in fact we fell in love with the very idea of it even before we got there. Then despite Tromsø's outlandish location over 350km north of the Arctic Circle, instead of Ice Station Zebra, we had discovered a fine old city. In remembrance of the city's role as jumping off point during the heroic 19th -early 20th century age of polar exploration, a statue of Norwegian conqueror of the South Pole, Rould Amundsen, proudly surveys the main shopping street. Tromsø boasts many 'northern-mosts': northern-most university, and more importantly, northern most brewery -'Mack (www.mack..no) ' -producing pilsener, dark beer and the appropriately-named 'Arctic' brand in cans. The brewery complex also includes Tromsø's oldest pub, a fine, oaky place decorated with stuffed polar bears, which residents will proudly tell you opens at 9AM by special license (well, they do make the stuff...). I was also told there was a thousand year old church across the fiord. If so, it almost dated to the same age of violent expansion that propelled the Vikings across the Atlantic's unknown vastness to Iceland, Greenland and North America (which known as 'Markland', was included in the Norwegian king's title as one of his realms in medieval times).
After being picked up at the airport by Egon Holstad of the Blå Rock Café (www.blarockcafe.no) , we barely had time to soundcheck and grab one of Blå Rock's famous burgers, then over to The Viking Hotel (www.vikinghotel.no) for a quick wash up before playing. Typical of nordic hotels, The Viking doesn't offer much in the way of charm, but unlike the town's more upscale lodgings (like the local Scandic, which is quite outside the city center), it is right around the corner from the Blå Rock, as well as a stone's throw from the Mack Brewery, the town's shopping district, harbor and tourist attractions like Polaria (live bearded seals, etc).
When we got back to Blå Rock, it was even more crowded than the first time we played there. It's always a thrill playing to a sweaty, packed house, even if that does mean about 125 people. Compact and multi-level, The Blå Rock is one of the world's outstanding music clubs and a favorite place to play. In this of all places, I noted that they not only stocked 'Frothee' ('a perfect whiskey sour every time') but 'Ratzeputz', the fiery Saxon ginger digestif. This is a good bar. We met two Polish tourists who had spent the past two nights marveling at the aurora borealis, although locals said that compared to other years, this year's northern lights were a dud. At any rate, that night the sky was quite overcast -a light snow was beginning to fall. From here there's still a good deal of north left in Norway -someone flew down for the show from Hammerfest (about a half hour flight further north). We've got our sights set on playing in Svalbard, more commonly known as Spitzbergen, a scant 660 miles shy of the North Pole. You hear stories about folks staggering home after pub-crawls getting mauled by polar bears, a hazard I can't personally verify -yet.

Gardemoen

02/06/10

The House Of Rock (Moss, Norway)

After almost getting snowed into Tromsø, it was a relief to arrive back in Oslo for our drive to Moss, a small city about an hour to the south. We were playing a 'house party' - a triple birthday bash for singer Vibeke Saugestad, Norwegian film star Caroline Andersen and garage-pop-mover Morten Henriksen. In the living room not one but two bands were on tap, the festivities to be kicked off by Norwegian girl-rockers The Cocktail Slippers (who have a new 'release' on Little Steven Van Zandt's 'Wicked Cool' record label www.cocktailslippers.no).
I first met Morten many years ago when I was assistant engineer on a recording project for his group The Vikings at Coyote Studios in Northside, Williamsburg (long gone -man, how THAT area has changed). Now from Moss he lords over a pantheon of Nordic rock & rollers including The Yum Yums www.myspace.com/ilovetheyumyums), The Twistaroos (www.myspace.com/thetwistaroos), and a budding recording career for Caroline (www.carolineandersen.com).
The entire evening was a reminder of how great it is to play house parties -the natural element of rock &roll, or at least of The Fleshtones, who began our band-life this very way back in Whitestone and Flushing 34 years ago. The music and refreshments flowed -Ringnes Beer (Norway's top brand) and Marques di Monistrol 2004 reserva privada -quite good but you wonder how 'private' can this stuff be if they sell it in the supermarket? It was our third time playing at Morten and Caroline's a.k.a. The House Of Rock. I'm always surprised the neighbors don't call the police.
Actually, we ran into one of the neighbors at the supermarket the next day, and she was very nice -in fact quite pleased to meet us (maybe the cake that Caroline baked for her helped). As it was, our next show in Oslo wasn't until Wednesday, so for the next few days we went domestic with Caroline and Morten -going to the supermarket, visiting thrift shops (got a stylish pair of black sunglasses for only NKr25, a deal topped by another shop where I got not only a classic pair of shades, the lady tossed in a 'lackerol' for only NKr10!). One night we watched the Super Bowl minus the commercials (but with Norwegian commentary) until 4:30AM, another night we watched 'Tropic Thunder' and at all times enjoyed great music from Morten's collection. We also (successfully) searched for epoxy glue to repair his collection of 50's modern 'black African beauty' (made in Norway) wall sculptures that were accidently smashed by drunken guests during HOR performances. After walking along a snowy nature trail and visiting the somewhat belligerent swans at the totally frozen beach (which I'm told is very popular during summer, whatever day that is) we stopped for hot cocoa with rum at Riis (www.visitmoss.no), a cafe in one of the city's old rehabilitated water-powered factories. The city's current main employer? You won't be in town long before you can guess that it's a paper mill, which imparts an unmistakable cabbage-like aroma that's famous across Norway.

the beach, Moss

-Lingon' and swingin'
Forget the herring (that's Sweden anyway), for the next few days we were well fed on Norwegian specialties, including one of my favorites -'brown' cheese, which comes in blocks (about the size of a pound of butter) made of either goat or cow milk, or a combination of both. It's tangy, somewhat sweet and reminiscent of dulce de leche -okay, caramel (although putting it that way lessens its appeal somewhat). After performing I went on an almost unstoppable binge of eating pølse -extra-long hot dogs wrapped in tortilla-like lompa (hot-dogs with waffles are also a Moss speciality). We also enjoyed finbiff -reindeer in sour cream sauce with mashed turnips and lingonberry, and a new one on me- røkt lammelår -a whole smoked leg of lamb (a veritable 'lamb ham') complete with roast fingerling potatoes and lingonberries, lapskaus -a thick soup made with root vegetables in rich meat-stock, in our case lots of the left-over 'lamb-ham' -good with a dab of lingonberry...which needless to say is good on your bread or svele (thick pancakes) and topping off a hunk of pikekyss -a huge whipped cream-filled meringue cake.
The bags of trash from the party in Morten's van were starting to compete with the smell of the paper mill (in all honesty, you can only smell the mill at certain times in certain places) so we all drove out to the municipal recycling/ site -transfer station/ dump. It unexpectedly closed early, so we had to return the next day. Although Morten spotted the police check point ahead and quickly snapped on his safety belt, the cops had advance observers in position and we were pulled over anyway. Morten's 'ID' was checked and he was given a 'breathalyzer' test (at 3 in the afternoon) by an extremely cheerful policeman, who none-the-less wrote him a NKr1,500 summons for not wearing his safety belt (I told you Norway was expensive). We still had about a dozen huge bags of empty beer bottles and cans from the party, so we stopped at the supermarket to redeem the deposits. Like in The States, the recycling machines will give you a receipt to bring to the cashier, but in Norway they can also 'make it interesting' for you -you can hit a button and bet your refund on a chance to win a NKr2,000,000 prize. More altruistically, you can also automatically donate your proceeds to The Norwegian Red Cross. Somehow we ran out of time to visit Otto down at the plant, where he had invited Bill Milhizer to test drive some of the new models of self-propelled wheelchairs.
Verdict? There is just too much to do in Moss.

Caroline at the dump, Moss

Feb. 10, 2010
On Wednesday afternoon we made a sunny drive to Oslo (those sunglasses came in handy), with dark pines and granite outcroppings peering out from under a brilliant mantle of snow -white expanses where you'll see dozens of lakes in a few months. Oslo, by far Norway's' largest city (pop. 570,000) and capital, is never the less compact and quite walkable. After 3 days in Moss, I almost found myself wandering around slack-jawed, staring at all the tall buildings. The aesthetic experience of strolling this busy jumble of new and old, however, is diminished somewhat by the numerous junkies one encounters. Ah, forget about that, if you're not attuned to that sort of thing you probably won't even notice. I'd recommend a hoof to the Royal Palace, then beyond to the famous Vigelandsparken Museum & Sculpture Garden. You'll need to take a public bus or taxi if you want to visit the Viking Ships Museum (worth it!).
Speaking of tall buildings, Caroline and I dropped in on DJ Young Danny, who was kind enough to invite us to join him during his broadcast over Radio Tango 105.8FM. The top-floor studios offer a panoramic view of the entire city and it's environs. I noticed that Oslo must be one of the few urban centers with not one but two ski-jumps within city limits. Then a dash to Elm Street (www.elmstreetcafe.no) for soundcheck and another burger (we were beginning to wonder where the Scandinavians were hiding all the meatballs). I don't think any of the not more than 85 people regretted being there later that night, but the narrow bar concentrated the audience (and their energy) to good effect. The Cocktail Slippers, with the addition of their keyboard player, were even better than at HOR (House Of Rock). Afterwards, the nordic-modern Thon Hotel Astoria (www.thonjotels.noastoria) across the street provided a super-convenient retreat. It was also a mere 3 minute walk to Oslo's main train terminal where the next morning we caught the express train to Gardermoen International Airport (20 minutes, NKr 170) for the SAS flight to Stockholm and our Super Rock Weekend.
-Peter Zaremba

(www.visitnorway.no)

next: 'I'll Take Sweden' -The Fleshtone's Stockholm Super Rock Weekend

DENMARK

2010-02-04T04:39:00.000-08:00

02/04/10 7AM SAS910 (meal service, see zaremblog) arrival: dark... snow...

view from the Absalon Hotel, Copenhagen

I'm sitting in my room at the Absalon Hotel (doubles from DK805,http://www.absalon-hotel.dk/sider/forside_74.aspx ), a serviceable enough place a few blocks from Copenhagen's main train station that offers a good 'morgenmad' (breakfast) -breads, yogurt, fruit, cheeses, cold cuts, pickled herring, the whole Scandinavian works. It's cold out, the promotion we've come a day early to do isn't happening and I've got exactly one and a half Danish crowns. So I'm catching up on some writing and thinking about my first trip to Denmark while sitting on my narrow berth-like bed (narrower the better, I wind up thrashing around in a big empty bed). Maybe that's why I like boats. The hum of the engines also helps me sleep. And if hanging around a bar in the middle of the day is a good way to find interesting (and unexpected) conversation, a voyage can combine all the possibilities of a bar, combined with the inducements of the seemingly endless features of sea -with expansive results. Just look at Moby Dick.
I took my first 'international cruise' in 1972 while returning from Newfoundland with my old friends from Maspeth Bobby-O and 'Doy'. We were taking the day-long ferry across the Bay Of Fundy from Yarmouth, Nova Scotia to Bar Harbor, Maine (a mere 23 years earlier, before Newfoundland joined the Canadian Confederation, the ferry there from Nova Scotia would also have been an international voyage). After weeks of wintery mid-June gloom and rain in the Maritimes, we were enjoying the sun on deck when a Nova Scotian Scot introduced himself and his family. Apparently he thought that three long-haired, teenage boys flying on LSD would make appropriate companions for his 13 year old daughter during the voyage. Very thin and somewhat anorexic, with long thick dark hair and eye-brows, her name was Heather -a pretty, very Scottish name indeed. Conversation proceeded awkwardly enough as it would between teens of the opposite sex, when she suggested we play rummy. Spades and hearts, diamonds and clubs were literally dancing across my hand when her father reappeared and offered us all thick, home-made lobster sandwiches. Incessant English propaganda to the contrary, I've never met a Scot who was anything but generous -sometimes grave, but always generous. Neither my friends or I had any appetite, but eating these luxurious sandwiches, even to be polite, was out of the question. Besides, the great chunks of shocking electric-vermillion lobster were slathered in gleaming white mayonnaise. Ever since my childhood I've found mayonnaise completely repulsive. Why would someone do such a thing to lobster? On we sailed for what seemed to be an eternity, me shifting the sandwich here and there, not wanting to appear to be an ingrate, trying to make some sense of the unrecognizable and ever-shifting patterns on the cards in my hand. "Don't you remember this game?" Heather would occasionally say as she reached over to pluck a card right out of my hand. It was with a mixture of sadness and relief that the silhouette of Mt. Desert, which I'm sure never will look more majestic, came into view, signaling the imminent end of our voyage.
The first time I visited Denmark was with The Fleshtones in the mid-eighties. We arrived by sea, the best way to arrive anywhere for the first time. We took the ferry down from Oslo, Norway to Copenhagen. I found myself a spot at one of the long formica tables in the ship's near-empty cafeteria. As we slid down Oslo's long fjord towards the open sea, an elderly man sat down opposite me. Perhaps he noticed me watching the passing shore, so he began to point out the various old shore fortifications as we steamed along. Being somewhat familiar with the story of Germany's 1940 sea-borne invasion of the country, I listened with some interest. It was going to be a long float anyway. As we passed through a narrow point in the fjord, he showed me the spot where a Norwegian battery had managed a direct hit, sinking a German cruiser -I believe the 'Hippler' (actually, it was the Blücher -PZ). "Good for them" I somewhat absent-mindedly commented, almost immediately realizing my mistake. "Good?" my companion corrected "they were only boys -like you, doing their duty!" I realized he was German, himself possibly a veteran of that invasion. Bygones are bygones, however, and he continued his discourse, bringing me right up to the current world situation. The old Soviet Union was then still very much alive and he warned the world was still fraught with danger. "Keep the powder dry" he advised me, bringing his fist firmly down on the table "-keep the powder dry!"
We arrived in Copenhagen very early the next morning. It was our first time there, so even though we were only 'in transit' and had a boat to England to catch on the other side of Denmark, Bill and I took off to find the famous 'Tivoli Gardens' which being extremely early (and out of season) were of course closed. We then went to see the changing of the King's Guard. They wore big bear-fur hats just like the guards at Buckingham Palace, only their tunics were blue instead of scarlet and they smirked during inspection.
By the time we made it back to the van, the whole band was waiting on us, so we jumped in and began a mad race across the country to catch our ferry on Denmark's west coast. It seemed like we were doomed to miss it, but to my intense relief, we arrived just as the last vehicles were being loaded on the ship. "See, we had plenty of time!"
The ferry was big enough to have a disco, so rather than retire to our miniscule cabin buried somewhere in the iron bowels of the ship, we got right into liberally taking advantage of the cheap drink prices. As a particularly inky dark night fell, we sailed straight into one of those rightfully-feared North Sea storms. In the disco, The Bee Gees and Brit pop like 'Wham' was still blasting. The loquacious English DJ babbled on over the music as gigantic waves slammed repeatedly into the ship, sending drinks and dancers flying. In hindsight (the only kind, it seems) it was foolish that our bassist Marek and I went up to the top deck to drunkenly enjoy the thrill of being buffeted by the gale. We hung on to the rail for dear life as the ship slammed down into the void after riding over each colossal swell, sending the cold sea crashing over the bow. Through the darkness and pelting rain I could swear I could see the back of a woman's figure, the fierce wind tearing at her hooded cape. With water hitting us full-force in the face, we watched in disbelief as she stood there staring off into the fatal blackness of the storm. Suddenly she turned and walked directly towards us. Like in a dream, I was riveted to the spot, unable to move as she came face to face with me, her nose within an inch of mine. There was an insane wildness in her eyes. "I love it when it's like this" she said. By the time we could collect ourselves, she had disappeared.
This time we're flying. Here's where we'll be:
02/04 Copenhagen,Denmark: Råhuset
02/05 Trømso, Norway: Blå (Blue) Rock
02/06 Moss, Norway: House Of Rock w/The Cocktail Slippers
02/10 Oslo, Norway: Elm Street w/ The Cocktail Slippers
02/12 Stockholm, Sweden w/ Stupidity and special guests The Nomads
02/13 Stockholm, Sweden w/ Stupidity and special guests The Cocktail Slippers
We'll also being doing a special afternoon performance at The Fountain House in Stockholm on the 13th.

Hope to see you there!
Peter Zaremba

Danish Addenda

If you're ready to drop a lot more crowns for style, you could consider staying at Nimb Hotel, a white-white-white ultra-contemperary boutique property on the 'right' side of the tracks (main railroad terminal). A member of the elite Small Luxury Hotel group, it's in easy walking distance to everything, in fact its back door opens directly into Tivoli Gardens. (dbls from DK 2,500 breakfast NOT included, www.nimb.dk).
Before the show we ate at Cafe Mandela (www.cafemandela.dk), part of the same renovated old industrial complex as the Råhuset. Hip without trying too hard, Mandela's most interesting dish is the African Stew -antelope in traditional tomato/onion sauce seasoned with cumin and almonds, served with mashed sweet potato -DK165, or feast on the Mandela Burger (I was joking but they actually have one), the real whopper of 200g of lean (less that 5% fat) beef, chedder cheese, salsa, jalapeños and french fries, DK125. Yeah, everything is expensive. Wait 'till you get to Norway.
And even if you don't arrive by the super-easy quick train from the airport, take time to admire the amazing vaulted roof of Copenhagen's main railway terminal, supported entirely by immense, broad arches of finely worked wood. Oh yeah, the debut of Rådhuset was lots of fun, a situation greatly aided by our friends from The Mau Mau Club and opening band David Peter and the Wilde Sect (www.myspace.com/dpthewildesect), they're kind of like The Swinging Blue Jeans only young and Danish.

Råhuset, Copeenhagen

Antigua

2010-01-17T15:52:00.000-08:00

Its a quiet MLK weekend in the country. The Fleshtones are on a month's sabbatical and I am recovering from what I suspect was a bout of the until recently dreaded H1N1 virus. Since I'm waiting on more photos from Ken (on the way) to continue 'I'll Make A Note Of It -The Fleshtones in Spain, 2009' I thought it would be a good time to backtrack to Antigua which Sergei, Marilla and I visited last summer as guests of Jolly Beach Resort. I was on assignment for the New York Daily News and the much-mourned (especially by me) Modern Bride. My Antigua bit for Modern Bride was slated to run in what would have been its next issue if the magazine hadn't folded without warning. My article for The Daily News fared a little better, however, due to the last minute addition of more advertisement (always a good thing!), they wound up only having space for about half of my feature (a bad thing). Newspapers have to do what they have to do and I've been proud to write for The New York Daily News for over ten years, but I felt that with the second half of my story missing, readers kind of miss its point. So I'd like to give you a more complete version. Why not? It's the dead of winter and it might be nice to read about a fun place on a sunny island. In the words of the great Paul Harvey "And now -for the rest of the story"

Most Americans think of Antigua (if at all) as the preserve of the yachty set and the super rich. After all, Eric Clapton, Oprah Windfrey and Georgio Armani all maintain spreads there. Britney and Whitney discreetly rehabbed there. But don't write-off this Caribbean island, where British tourists far outnumber Americans, when it comes to thinking about an affordable alternative to budget 'all inclusives' in the DR or Mexico.

View from Shirley Heights: Eric Clapton's compound is at the far tip of the peninsular to the middle/right.

Besides driving on the left, there's not an overwhelming amount of attractions on Antigua to make English, or any other, vacationers feel guilty about lazing about in the sun: There's Colonial-era architecture and duty-free shops in the capital of St. Johns (stick to touristed areas); historic English Harbour /Nelson's Dockyard -an 18th century British naval complex that remains a world-class sailing center; and the natural 'Devil's Bridge' on Antigua's wave-pounded Atlantic coast. And there's the inexpensive local 'Cavalier' rum that especially flows to the reggae and steel band music during the Sunday Afternoon 'jump up' at Shirley Heights (breath-taking views). But Antigua's main draw (and it's a good one) is it's dazzling beaches, purportedly 365 of them -not bad for an island smaller than Queens.

18th century-era English Harbour. Clarence House, a palatial mansion, was constructed here for the future King William IV while Admiral Nelson was obliged to live aboard his ship.

Sprawling along it's own mile of palm-studded beach, Jolly Beach Resort is a 464 room 'all inclusive' that's an exception to the island's pricey reputation. The Queen doesn't stay here (in fact, Helen Mirren, who played the Queen, doesn't stay here either) but 'regular' Brits return year after year, along with sizable West Indian and Italian contingents. The resort ambles to a definite Antiguan rhythm. It's the Caribbean with an indelible British stamp. Jerked chicken is served along with the 'chips' to an upbeat soundtrack of 'soca' music at the poolside grill. Teatime is observed, British tabloids are available in the gift shop and bartenders don't drop a beat when asked to mix a 'shandy' (beer and lemon soda). Besides the expected water sports and volleyball, the beach is the center for almost daily sessions of cricket, that distant ancestor of baseball that's an obsession for half the planet.

The Serg' at bat.

Despite being obvious novices (Americans) , we were welcome to join in and the staff were delighted to initiate us baffled, but willing, Yanks into the mysteries of the sport. Once started, the good-natured play attracted kitchen staff and other guests eager to show their stuff. Antigua is mad for cricket. Being played in 'the round' (oval, actually) there's no such thing as a 'foul' ball, although balls hit over the water were considered out of play. It was fun to take a refreshing dive into the surf after them anyhow. With no one keeping score, play stretched into the afternoon with Sergei and I getting pointers in both hitting and (more difficult) bowling (pitching) which requires that the ball bounce once before the batsman hits it. Then the action shifted to beach volleyball, where Sergei was quickly dubbed 'Harry Potter' (his hero) due to his curly hair and glasses. The resort also maintains a real grass 'pitch' (playing field) for serious games during peak cricket season (late winter- summer). Of course, the resort has night-lit tennis courts as well (mid-day tennis in the tropics is gruesome).

The bartenders take pride in remembering guests names and their favorite drinks, which are generously poured. At the main pool, an bottle of rum is even left on the bar for guests to adjust their own drinks. That's different. Although you wouldn't come here expressly for a gourmet experience, lovers of fresh fish (grilled marlin, wahoo and 'dolphinfish' -that's mahi-mahi, not Flipper) and authentic West Indian cooking (like curry chicken, johnny cake and ducana -a sort of sweet, coconut and allspice tamale) will be more than happy. And a new chef promises to bring Bocciolo, the resort's Italian restaurant, up to snuff. Anyway, "It's all about getting out on the beach" as Jolly Beach's marketing director Patrice Christian explained. While I'll agree with that I'd also say a place like Jolly Beach offers a lot more. It's also about feeling at home while getting away to a place that's a little different.
Antigua itself seems to be bouncing back after a rough year when violent crime was putting an unwanted international spotlight on this normally bucolic island. Security, although not obtrusive, now seems to be taken seriously. Good. Although the beach, or beaches, will certainly be the focus of your trip here, there's no reason not to get out among the island's polite if somewhat reserved people. I was the only passenger on one of the 'route buses' that ply the island's roads when the driver pulled over to pick up an elderly woman. She explained that she had been waiting for a Mrs. Johnson, who was coming on a bus from the direction we were headed. So as we went on our way, the driver hailed down and asked the driver of every bus we passed if Mrs. Johnson was on board. I didn't mind the few minutes this added on to my trip as much as I enjoyed this glimpse of old-fashioned courtesy that you can still come across in the Caribbean.
Every week there's a Jolly Beach bonfire. The staff put on a thoroughly enjoyable show including limbo and fire dancing -routines that have been performed for tourists so long they've almost morphed into 'authentic' Caribbean culture. Afterwards, at 'Disco Night', today's informal cricket instructor had himself morphed into 'DJ One'. The assembled crowd of British teenagers, European holiday-makers and West Indians held back, waiting for someone to make the first move.
Sergei said "not yet" but when DJ One segued into Micheal Jackson's 'Really Starting Something' he launched into an all-out break dance that earned him a resounding ovation. The party had indeed started. During his short stay, he had had no trouble finding partners and packing his days with non-stop beach volleyball, pool volleyball (his favorite), billiards, tennis, table tennis and of course cricket. At the bar a middle-aged South Asian travel agent from London inquired why my son and I had dropped out of that afternoon's session of cricket. "We needed you!" he earnestly exclaimed. I still wasn't sure I knew the difference between an 'inning' and an 'over', but it was nice to feel included.

-Peter Zaremba

the pool at Jolly Beach Resort

IF YOU GO...
Jolly Beach Resort starts at USD$218 per couple per night. Includes all beverages, entertainment, tennis, non-motorized water sports and meals (although certain dishes, mostly shrimp and lobster, attract a surcharge of $10 -$15USD): www.jollybeachresort.com.

MORE UP-SCALE:
Intimate and utterly luxurious, Carlisle Bay Resort's serene Balinese-contemporary vibe extends from it's 82-suites to it's 'Blue Spa' and pan-Asian 'East' restaurant (doubles from $555, www.carlisle-bay.com)
Debuting in 2007, The Verandah offers 200 deluxe cottages crowning a bluff book-ended by two unspoiled coves (doubles from $520, all-inclusive; www.verandahresortandspa.com)
Antigua is also the location of Jumby Bay, a highly-reputed (and expensive) resort on its own islet.
On Antigua swimming, snorkeling, windsurfing and jet-skis are never more than a few steps from your doorstep. Sailing reigns supreme -start by sharing the waves with sea turtles and dolphins on an 'around the island sail' (www.antiguatourcruises, $115 per person). By land, you can zip-line through the jungle (www.antiguarainforest.com) or hike up recently re-named Mount Obama, Antigua's highest peak. Antigua's taxi drivers make willing tour guides, although during the daylight hours you can take advantage of the minibuses that ply the island's main roads for EC$2.70, the equivalent of $1USD.

For more info on Antigua go to www.antigua-barbuda.org.

I Walked With A Zombie (Harrisburg Reduxe /Roky Erickson)

2010-01-05T11:43:00.000-08:00

Is THIS a Susquenhanna hat?! -again

Rob & John at the bar, Bricco

The Fleshtones' New Year's Eve was rescued by John Traynor, who egged on and abetted by friends Rob Woodworth and Stacey Jo Withers, arranged a last minute booking at The Harrisburg Midtown Arts Center (http://harrisburgarts.com). John was there to welcome us back as we 'loaded in', looking quite natural in his colorful Gucci flower-print wet -suit top. In this weather quite practical actually. Once again Mike from Parallax Project was kind enough to lend us a 'back line' and after a mercifully efficient sound-check thanks to soundman Dave (in which we brushed off a couple of our Christmas songs and even learned a new one -'I Like Nog' for the occasion) we all met up with Rob and Stacey Jo at Bricco, their personal favorite of Harrisburg's restaurants.

Chef Jason and crew man the kitchen, Bricco, Harrisburg, PA

A lot larger than Harrisburg's previously visited 'Mangia Qui', Bricco (www.briccopa.com) features several softly-lit rambling dining areas done up in somewhat early sixties high-design of dark, rich earthy tones, centering on a shiny open kitchen. 'Inspired, cuisine' is their catch phrase, with the inspiration being largely supplied by Italy, as well as regional produce, especially Pennsylvania beers, spirits and wines. Gently lethal martinis mixed with local vodkas are a speciality. After oysters we moved on to 'primi plati' like pumpkin ravioli and garlicky jumbo grilled shrimp, then main dishes of osso bucco, braised short rib, aged strip steak (my unimaginative but superb choice -I figure I can always eat off everyone else's plate) and arctic char -now quite available but a delicacy I only could read about in 'Field & Stream' as a child. Executive chef Jason Viscount swung by the table to wish all a happy New Year as the evening of not only great food but conversation raced by. As table talk veered off into discussions of Jamaica and Joe Besser it was time to head over to The Harrisburg Midtown Arts Center for the show. At the door they were doling out pork and cabbage, a 'local New Year's Eve treat' for the party-goers, who naturally enough were fewer than when we played just two weeks previously. "I didn't do any advertising!" John calmly stated. How could he? We had only booked the show three days before. For their efforts, I hope everyone had a great time. We certainly must have enjoyed ourselves -we played for over two hours.

Susquehanna River, New Year's Morning, 2010

From the Sublime to the Inedible...
I didn't have time to remember to chant 'rabbit, rabbit, rabbit', as we made an early exit from Harrisburg on New Year's morning. Making great time on the deserted roads, we stopped for a bite outside of Allentown. Naturally everyplace with any decency was closed, so not quite desperate enough for convenience mart hot-dogs or cello-wrapped industrial pastry, we pulled into a 'Wendy's'. I ordered the $1.29 'Jr. Bacon Cheese Burger' from the bargain menu. Bacon -cheese -burger -that all seemed harmless enough. When unwrapped, I realized the tiny burger had been pre-slathered not only with mayonnaise but mustard as well, reminding me how little i really needed to eat this thing after all. When I got home to Greenpoint I tossed it into the garbage.

An Evening With The Evil One

Roky Erickson, Southpaw New Year's Day 2010

Later that afternoon, The Fleshtones arrived at Southpaw to find Roky Erickson's backing band in the middle of soundcheck. One thing I've learned from years of sometimes disappointing fan-dom (and especially as MC of most of the 'Cavestomp' shows) is that bringing back the artists that cut the records that we've built our lives around can be a tricky thing. If the artists themselves have any idea of what long-time fans found so inspired about their music in the first place, it's totally lost by recruiting back-up bands of irredeemably clueless musicians. Roky's band knew exactly why they were there. They rehearsed versions of Erickson's marvelously inexplicable 'Two-Headed Dog (Red Temple Prayer) and little Richard's 'Oooh My Soul' -a song Roky had unexpectedly launched into at the Janis Joplin Rock & Roll Hall Of Fame induction concert a few weeks before. "I'm in charge of the set list (which varies nightly), so we'll be playing lots of 70's devil music tonight" bassist Matt Harris gleefully explained before heading off to a Williamsburg apartment for New Year's Dinner with the band. It was shaping up to be a very promising night. We walked the few blocks to Norton Records (www.nortonrec.com) World Headquarters and home of Billy Miller and Miriam Linna -New York's royal couple of Rock & Roll. Always a stalwart of true rock and roll culture, it was Mirian who had first played me the 'Two-Headed Dog' 45 when she was still drumming for The Cramps back in the 70's. At the party I contributed of some of my 'cho cho pie' to the vast 'pot-luck' spread. I ate little, having an early set time with The Fleshtones. I couldn't, however, keep away from Miriam's nut-crusted chicken with cherry sauce dip -no doubt a product of her Finnish culinary heritage, or perhaps her early days in Sudbury, Ont (see: Big Nickle). Lucky Billy. Then it was back down the hill to the already-packed Southpaw.
Accompanied by his wife Dena, Roky Erickson was already in the dressing room. The return of 'The Evil One' has been a family affair. After many difficult years younger brother Sumner Erickson did a lot to help Roky get back on his feet and performing again. Along with the reassuring presence of Dena, road manager/son Jegar deals with a lot of the pressures of touring. New York fans had waited until 2007 for their first Roky Erickson show, so his return to Southpaw was highly
anticipated. In fact, he 'sold out' The Southpaw on New Year's Day, the deadest of dead nights for clubs. The influence of Roky's music can hardly be overstated. Releasing 'The Psychedelic Sounds of The 13th Floor Elevators' in 1966, he was a pioneer of the genre, and not the drippy San Francisco variety, but it's hard driving Texas progenitor. The life of a pioneer is tough enough, but being a visionary can exact a heavy toll, leading to electro-shock therapy in Texas's none-to-solicitous State Hospitals as it did for Roky in the late 60's/early seventies. He emerged as the self-proclaimed 'Evil One', pursued by, and occasionally being, an Alien (not the Mexican kind) and recording excellent material. His difficulties however, continued. Please forgive me if you already know all this.
The Rub kicked off the evening's proceedings in rocking form. Unlike many transplants from the Far East, they're not a one-joke operation (you know, cute Japanese girls who can't really speak English or play, on stage trying to sing in English and play). We look forward to playing with The Rub again. Then The Fleshtones delivered an appropriately abbreviated (but high-entertainment value) set. Was any more needed?
Meanwhile, Jegar was everywhere, helping out while Roky and Dena bided time in the crowded, shared dressing room. "My Dad's first choice was to name me 'Alien' then 'R2D2' because 'Star Wars' had come out, but luckily I just got my 'everyday name' Jegar explained, shedding a little light on his childhood years. In the claustrophobic dressing room The Evil One seemed quiet and composed -perhaps a bit fragile. Did I say that his band were great guys? Matt even brought back some tasty New Year's hoppin' john from his dinner for me to enjoy after the show. Matt also generously suggested that I join the band on stage to play harmonica on 'You're Gonna Miss Me'. Jegar readily agreed and put the idea to his Dad. I could see concern spreading across Roky's face. "I don't know" he replied "I'd have to rehearse the songs and re-learn how to play the harmonica..." Jegar explained that it would actually be me playing the harp and not him. The last thing I wanted to be was the source of stress for Erickson, but the matter was worked out. It was time for Roky's set.

Ian Moore & Roky, Southpaw New Year's Day 2010

He opened with a solid rendition of 'Cold Night' and quickly finding his groove moved on to 'Creature'. Soon he genuinely seemed to be enjoying himself on stage. The notoriously cool New York audience was singing along well before he launched into his strangely moving anthem 'I Walked With A Zombie' (which seems to go beyond being merely inspired by the title of the Val Luton film). The set flowed along, all memorable stuff until he delivered a version of 'Starry Eyes', touching a vein that runs through his music that, more than his personas as Alien or Evil One, reveals a heart akin to that of fellow Texan Buddy Holly. I got to do my bit of harmonica playing and backing vocals during' You're Gonna Miss Me' (thanks again). 'Two -Headed Dog' followed, then 'Don't Slander Me' and it was over. There were no encores or bows. The audience was happy to have been there, with many ready to see Roky again the next night in Hoboken. It has been a long, sometimes painful journey, but he who was once The Evil One walks among us once more.

-Peter Zaremba

(www.rokyerickson.net)
photos: P. Zaremba 2010

Christmas In Connecticut

2009-12-28T10:46:00.000-08:00

just in: The Fleshtones will indeed be playing on New Year's EVE at The Harrisburg Midtown Arts Center! (http://harrisburgarts.com/ )
See you there!!!!

It's the third day of Christmas, a cold rain washed away the snow over night and I can't get 'Christmas In Killarney' out of my head. I had never heard this odiously catchy tune, or at least I managed to ignore it, until this holiday season -when suddenly it was everywhere. We must have heard three or four different artists tackle the song on the Sirius Holiday Radio Channel on our DirectTV and even were regaled by some neo-Brit/Celtic folk revivalists reeling it out over Mid-Hudson NPR on our past-midnight drive up to Connecticut on Christmas Eve. Maybe it's a publishing thing, like when Michael Jackson died the catalogue of Beatle's songs that he was jealously sitting on was suddenly all over the place, adding class to Billy May infomercials and God knows what else. Perhaps when cutting the publishing deal Manager Klein had (in his kindness) judiciously padded out the song-writing efforts of Lennon /McCartney and Harrison with filler like 'Christmas In Killarnery'? I'll leave that to those better equipped to research the connections, but I will say that Bing Crosby's version was the best version I heard, as much as it would have infuriated me (along with everything else Der Bingle did) as an intemperate youth. He certainly sounds natural enough singing it. If it exists, I'd like to hear how Dean Martin would have tossed off the song -don't laugh, Dino Crocetti's breezy 'don't give a f**k' approach is just the thing for such holiday-time blarney.
Anyway, with the Holiday rush and all it's been a while since I've posted to The BusyBuddy. So thank 'Christmas In Killarney and all of the the folks back home' for shaking me out of my Christmas daze long enough to offer you all my Holiday Greetings, wishing everyone a Merry Christmas and all the best in the coming year (we'll be needing it) -something I should have done long BEFORE the 25th. Then I could have included Chanukah Greetings to my friends as well as slipping in a plug for The Fleshtones's 2008 Christmas album 'Stocking Stuffer' (YEP -2184;http://www.yeproc.com/) in time for someone to buy it, but that would be too practical and 'smack of self-promotion', wouldn't it?
So it's Christmas in Connecticut -minus Barbara Stanwick, but with the electronic 'Yule Log' gayly burning away on the flat-screen by request of son Sergei (surely this two-hundred year-old house originally had several fireplaces, all removed in an over-zealous modernization drive by the former owners several generations ago). We enjoyed, as always, DVDs of McGoo's Christmas Carol (great Jim Backus and songs by top Broadway tunesmiths Merill & Styne) , a Harry Potter feature and a very strange Russian version of Gogol's strange 'Night Before Christmas' kindly lent to us by Olga Lausch of Rehobeth, DEL, which prompted me to read the original story (translation of course) this morning. No 'Christmas Carol' of course, but then Gogol wasn't that type of moralizer.

Here's our Christmas dinner -on which we are still dining:
Roast Duck with hot Bilberry sauce*,
Mashed potatoes
Root vegetables (turnips, beets and parsnips) brushed with duck fat and roasted with fresh rosemary, pepper and salt)
Spinach with garlic
Mixed salad with feta.
Prosecco Santero -San Stefano Belbo
Before I'm hauled up before a Congressional Committee for high-hatting extravagance in these hard times (but Holiday, eh, Christmas Mr. Scrooge, Christmas...) I will plead that I got the duck for $12.95 with the help of my 'Stop & Shop' card (shades of Jonathan Richman's immortal 'Roadrunner' -but I not only drive past the Stop & Shop, I stop to shop at the Stop & Shop). As exotic as the bilberry sounds, a jar of the jam can be purchased at one of the Polish food shops in Greenpoint (along with somewhat harder to find cranberry, lingonberry and occasionally even whortleberry jams) for about $2.29. I'm sure that's exactly how the chef prepared our magret de canard with bilberry sauce (using jam) that the band enjoyed so much before our Paris show two years ago (I'll get the address of the cafe for you). The prosecco was $10.99 a pop (even less when when you get the 20% discount by buying three bottles at our local dealer on Manhattan Ave in Greenpoint) - not too sweet at all -just right and certainly festive. To sum it all up the spinach was thawed from frozen blocks (99¢ a box -anywhere) and the potatoes and roots -well they speak for themselves (hmmm, let me think about that...). We didn't even bother eating the salad until the next day -the feast of St. Stephen as mentioned in Good King Wenceslaus -Boxing Day as Ken Fox and our friends in The Commonwealth would have it -that is, the second day of Christmas. I like Christmas having twelve days. If that's too much for you, once while in Tobago, I recall hearing a woman on the radio putting forth the argument that Christmas actually had thirteen days. I guess that's counting Epithany, which we called 'Little Christmas' when I was a child. The Tobagonians, however, are content to celebrate only 12 days (with music, drinking and constantly setting off explosions by pouring gasoline into a hollow of bamboo and lighting it) -even if they did seem to run out of steam after New Year's Day. Anyway, the old tradition softens the let down after the big build up, you know that feeling of it all being over in one day. Some say good riddance, but people wouldn't feel that way if Christmas wasn't celebrated (pushed, actually) so early and heavily weeks before it even arrives all during Advent or even before that. That might also save us some of the unseemly grousing about Yuletide commercialization, although the observation of desperate merchants this year might have been the lack of it.

We're about to drive up to The Red Lion Inn (http://www.redlioninn.com/) in picture-perfect Stockbridge, Mass (of Norman Rockwell and yes, Alice's Restaurant /Arlo Guthrie fame) to admire the Christmas display and have some hot cocoa or mulled cider with rum, a yearly tradition.
Writer John Buckley tells me he labored there as a lad. Probably at the same time an enraged Viennese dessert chef named Horst was screaming at me at the top of his lungs in the kitchens of the venerable Hotel Sagamore in the Adironacks. I'll have to thank Horst for unintentionally (?...) helping me decide -or at least not decide, what I was incapable of deciding for many years to come. I wound up letting that decide itself. That was in the early 70's - I remember well because the first Black Sabbath album was being played, maddeningly, non-stop by some Mexican maniacs on the only turntable in the dilapidated barracks where the grand old hotel's staff of transients, ex-cons and Anders Goldfarb (who had gotten me the gig there), were housed. Oddly enough, just a couple of years ago I was doing a 'site inspection' for a leading bridal magazine at Caneel Bay, St. John's USVI (a gorgeously low-key resort founded many years ago by Lawrence Rockefeller with the idea of providing a means of employment for the islanders -I couldn't help asking if 'Larry' still dropped in) when I was introduced to the assistant dessert chef, who couldn't have been any older than I was when I was back at the Sagamore. She told me she was just recovering from the farewell party they had given the night before for their retiring (and long-serving) pastry chef -an ill-tempered Viennese fellow named Horst. Life is indeed very strange and wondrous. So once again I'll wish you all Happy Holidays and hope to see you all at Southpaw (http://spsounds.com/)in Brooklyn for our audacious Hangover Helper with Roky Ericsson on New Year Day -that's day, not eve, if you can stand it.

Peter Zaremba

* Roasting the duck wasn't as awful as you might think. We scored the skin, rending off a bunch of the fat while browning the skin in an iron skillet, then roasted the bird on a rack with a DEEP pan underneath to catch the rest of the fat in a hot oven (about 400º) for a little under 2 hours for the 5 1/2 lb. duck. I had taken the precaution of lining the inside of the oven with foil, which wasn't really necessary, but of course we managed to fill the house with smoke anyway.

Fleshtones Weekend: Rehobeth Beach DE, Harrisburg PA; Dec 4-5

2009-12-08T18:58:00.000-08:00

'Is THIS a Susquehanna hat?!'

I'm going to take a break from Spain to tell you about last weekend. Ken Fox picked us up Friday afternoon in his mini-van and we drove down to Rehobeth Beach, DE to play that night at Dogfish Head (http://www.dogfish.com). Thanks to our friend Chris Lausch, it's become a regular (and welcome) gig for us. I'll have to tell you more about Rehobeth at some point, but it's a low-key beach resort that we, in true Fleshtones fashion, happen to play mostly during the winter (why change our business model at this point?). A mile or two up the coast is Lewes (pronounced like Dean Martin's partner), where the Cape May ferry comes in from New Jersey. In Dutch colonial days it was called Swannendael, and as such claims to be Delaware's oldest town, but there's nothing left from then (or its ephemeral Swedish period). Still, the compact village has a super-quaint, salty English colonial vibe and is worth investigating. Although hardly unique for bombarded American sea-side towns, they do have their own 'cannonball house' with a iron memento cemented where it smashed into a wall during a British siege, if I remember (I'm not going to research that now) from the almost-forgotten War Of 1812. The only person I ever knew who got worked up over that conflict was Gordon Spaeth. We may not have gotten Canada in that one, but did wind up with two good songs: The Star Spangled Banner and Johnny Horton's 'Battle Of New Orleans'.
Anyway, the worst part of touring (even in this small way) during the winter for me is arriving at our destination in the dark. It's always given me the creeps. As soon as we 'loaded in' however, The Dogfish Head lifted all spirits. During the evening it's a cheery, family seafood place. There's canoes and a dinghy suspended from the ceiling as well as vintage photos and fishing gear on the walls. Although a bit exotic for my tastes, they brew their own award-winning line of beers that are starting to get national distribution, as as well distilling their own vodkas and (excellent) rums.
There's lots of great places to eat in Rehobeth, but we decided to stay put and dine right at Dogfish Head. Nothing fancy. The speciality is of course seafood, with with optional hamburgers and steaks if you're in the mood. Most of us chose crab-cake sandwiches, $11, which comes with a pile of excellent french fries which is good if you like french fried potatoes. I like french fries. To wash it down I had a pint of their 'Lawnmower', the closest thing they brew to what I'd call a 'normal' beer, but I've got pretty pedestrian tastes when it comes to the stuff. Then we went back to Chris's to watch a DVD of 'Young Frankenstein'. Gene Hackman tackles his cameo with his usual delight, but YF hasn't held up well (I didn't even bother seeing it when it came out, and as weak a leading man as Gene Wilder was, Brooks' films hardly improved later when he replaced Wilder with himself. But to have made one movie like 'The Producers' is enough to redeem them all).
Back at the club the opening band, Harrisburg powerpoppers The Jellybricks, (who were also kind enough to lend us their 'back line'), got the fun rolling with an energetic set, then we did our thing for a modest-sized, but appreciative, audience. It's always a pleasure to play Dogfish Head.
Afterwards, Chris was once again kind enough to host the band. On the way back to his home we stopped in front of Apple Electric on Route 24 just off Highway 1. Every year, the building and grounds are covered with an elaborate (to say the least) all-night light display that is synchronized to Christmas music broadcast over 88.7FM. Bill and I clamored to stop, so we pulled over and tuned in just in time for opening bars of 'Charlie Brown's Christmas'. The lights went into a mad dance, then both radio and lights went dead as Apple Electric's power blew, plunging everything into an inky, silent night.

The next morning after coffee and mini-bagels (and again many thanks to Chris and his lovely wife Olga), we headed off to Harrisburg. We decided to screw 'Mapquest' (usually, not a good idea) and cut cross-country (well, yes, we did use a road), heading to Harrisburg via the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. It's an interesting drive through the flat Delmarva farmlands and small towns that reminded me a lot of the Long Island of my childhood (which could have been in the 19th century for all the irrevocable change that that place has undergone). The route took us right through the middle of the Sussex County seat (DE only has 3 counties) of St. George's, with it's green surrounded by beautiful red-brick (there's no stone here) colonial buildings including the courthouse and an inn that looks like a great place for at least a drink, if not more. Let me know if you ever stop there. We were listening to Irma Thomas and I was engrossed in the harrowing climax of Hemingway's 'For Whom The Bell Tolls' - something I should have read in school, or at least while driving around Spain, but only had recently picked it up on the urging of my son, who came by it by way of Metallica. By the time we got to the bridge, it was snowing heavily, reducing visibility to a tight perimeter. What we could see of the bay far below us was dark and gray, whipped into a white-capped frenzy by the raising wind. "This is really something" Ken and I blurted out simultaneously, but what we really meant was 'scary'. It snowed all the way to Harrisburg, but as we crossed the Susquehanna River into the city, the weather settled into a misty, sorrowful gloom. I'm a patriotic guy, but staring down at the broad, shallow river, the place seemed more foreign to me than anywhere we'd been in the over 3 weeks in Spain. Well, I don't think we've played in Harrisburg in 20 years, the closest we've gotten was rocketing by miles to the north on the 'interstate' on our way to points west or east. At least I'd have some observations for anyone who finds themselves here if they become governor or something.

There's Something Out There...

Physically, Harrisburg was a lot more attractive than I remembered. It's basically a pre-Civil War (I bet things got pretty jittery around here when Lee's armies were down the road in Gettysburg) era city with its guts ripped out by some more recent, misconceived urban planning. We pulled into the Comfort Inn Riverfront ( 525 S Front Street, Harrisburg, PA 17104; www.comfortinnriverfront.com), which has recently been redecorated -contemporary furnishings, lots of granite and all. Not bad! And river front indeed -right in front of our 'picture window' was the wide Susquehanna (well, there was a bit of a parking lot in between), crossed by the city's trademark long, low old multi-arch bridges -I tried counting the concrete aches of the closest one but lost count after 30. The adjacent Indian restaurant is supposed to be pretty good too, but tonight's promoter (he hates that term and if a 'promoter' he is a most exceptional one) John Traynor had other plans for us. Driving to the venue we passed blocks of old row houses, sort of like the older parts of Philadelphia. The Harrisburg Midtown Arts Center (268 Herr St and Susquehanna -'is this a Susquehanna hat?!', Harrisburg PA; www.harrisburgarts.com), very much a work in progress, occupies a multi-thousand square foot disused former Jewish Center in a residential part of town. For once I felt relieved to be in a bright, renovated performance space. The ceiling was soaring, high enough to accommodate the witty stainless steel sculptures (giant fly meets giant swatter, etc) that topped the long, inviting bar. The walls were hung with an exhibit of large, contemporary paintings. John explained that they were a series of autobiographical pieces created by 'at risk' youth -an outreach program for kids that have been kicked out of schools and worse. John was quite proud of the project and to cynics (with a small C) I'd say it's a hell of a lot better (and cheaper) than jail. There's always time for that later. Hearing far and wide that The Fleshtones were reputed to be veritable idiot bon-vivants, John was very excited to show us what rebounding Harrisburg had to offer.

He brought us, and Mike from the opening band Parallax Project (who had helped arranged the show together with Chris), to Mangia Qui (272 North Street, Harrisburg PA; http://www.mangiaqui.com) which is diagonally across from the Pennsylvania's grandiose capitol -complete with a dome patterned after St. Peter's Basilica.
Behind the wooden venetian blinds on the windows there was a nice 'buzz' in the medium-sized store-front dining room. The walls were a soothing ochre. The well-dressed diners looked, and sounded, like they were enjoying themselves. Co-owner Staci Basore effusively greeted John -he seems to be quite the man about town. He certainly is doing a good thing for Harrisburg. Having the unusual background of parents from Norfolk, England and our own Rockaway Beach, Queens, he grew up in New York and England, later opening a boutique hotel in Bejar de la Frontera, Spain. He was on the verge of moving to Brazil and opening a hotel there, when he made the next logical choice and landed in Harrisburg.
The waitress ran down an formidable array of specials and recommendations: seared fois-gras with 'Italian' fruits...... marinated and grilled local 'boletus' mushrooms..... fresh 'corzetti' pasta served with a lamb.....Portuguese snapper -I can serve it two ways: ......whole...... fillet.... local micro greens..... magret de canard... 'Tuscan grill' (?)....... At $14 a 1/2 dozen, there was a pricey, but good selection of cold water oysters, including small Rhode Island Umani (like nearby Fisher's island) and Effinghams from BC. I used to love oysters on the half shell, but have been mighty gun-shy of them (especially on performance nights) since two catastrophic encounters (in France, no less). I'm no sissy and I had been drinking wine (Pio Cesare Barbera d'Alba 2006 -hmmm, what's that, a hint of? vanilla? 'flan?' -I'd been in Spain too long), so swept up in the general enthusiasm I downed one oyster, and then another and another. John also insisted on me trying the seared fois-gras with 'Italian fruits'. I know this sweet fruit thing with meats is sort of cheating, but it was very good. Anyway, I've got no brief against maraschino cherries, a venerable product of Trieste. I spilt the 'corzetti' and the Tuscan Grill with Ken. The corzetti was like orecchiette, only bigger and flatter -served with a rich lamb ragu, and the Tuscan grill (served with roast fingerling potatoes -local too, I presume!) turned out to be a thick disc of a rib-eye, semi-charred on the outside, red on the inside and salted, just like in Florence, but much, much better meat -but I wished I had chosen Streng's duck, which was rare and more flavorful than any steak. Wasn't there a show to do? And I did say we don't eat before shows?
Instead of the dozen or so old fans creeping out of the woodwork, we were surprised to play to a full house. Again, the openers Parallax Project, were ace musicians, generous and lots of fun, and the sound, eerily hollow during sound check, was excellent. We had a great time, even whipping out a version of The Guess Who's 'It's My Pride' (more Canadiana) that we've been reluctant to perform ( it does have an unnecessarily large amount of lyrics for me to remember).
Well, you can still learn things. I love Harrisburg.

Next: back to Spain -Valencia, Barcelona, Burgos, A visit with Ricardo Palacios and 'Don't Talk To Juancho'

'I'll Make A Note Of It!' , pt.2 I'll Have The Quail...

2009-11-25T12:13:00.000-08:00

I'll Have The Quail

It's been an inside joke with the band especially when weighing some of the lamer dining options while 'on the road' here in the States. It all goes back to Spain, just like The Fleshtones have been doing for the past 22 years. We had arrived in Madrid the morning before and I spent the previous afternoon tramping from bank to bank with with long-time Spanish agent and friend Jose 'Pepe' Ugeña in a fruitless attempt to wire money back home (the avalanche of unpaid bills doesn't cease just because I leave the country). That night we had drinks at La Catrina (corradera Alta de San Pablo, 13), a small Mexi-kitsch bar whose Russian bartender Andre is one of the kindest in Madrid's Malasaña district.

In the morning the band and all our gear piled into a modest-size Ford Transit mini-bus along with our road manager/driver Luis 'Jimmy' Garcia (former Templo del Gato DJ and lead singer of Los Nuggets -traveling with Jimmy makes everyday seem like you're in in some sort of movie) heading for our first engagement in Valencia.
We were listening to early 60's Halloween music and re-visiting old favorites The Move via an anthology (courtesy of David Kamp). After mind-numbing hours of driving through a blasted spaghetti-western landscape of eroded rock, the occasional cement plant (abandoned) in the middle of nowhere, and tortured olive trees and vineyards (look, there's our first 'bull' -adverts for 'Osborne' brand sherry, the colossal black silhouettes have been a hallmark of driving in Spain for generations) I figured I'd try another old plan of mine. "Let's learn a Spanish phrase everyday since we're in the van anyway." "Comemos" said Jimmy -let's eat. Somewhere before entering the province of Valencia we pulled into a truck stop (also in the middle of nowhere) that had the right look. I'm not suggesting you to drive out here to eat so I won't bother telling you the name or where it was. Anyway, there are places like this all over Spain. This is one country, along with Italy, where you can expect to eat well, and more importantly, cheaply, while on the road. The band also enjoys having our main meals midday. Anyone who has seen us on stage knows that we're not exactly 'shoegazers' so we don't like to eat much before shows. A quick look at the menu - which included a 12 euro 'menu del dia' -a bit more than we would like to spend. 'Why not?' and we were in. There was a massive, wall-through brick wood-fired 'asador' (cooking hearth) that was screened-off with fire-proof glass. We grabbed one of the many tables in the cavernous, sterile but bright comedor. A scattering of truck drivers and highway maintenance crews were busy ignoring the tiny TV that was showing a Spanish version of 'Wheel Of Fortune'. Although a well-paid professional in Norway, the richest country in Europe, often has to squeeze in a brown-bag lunch, a blue collar Spanish worker can somehow afford a leisurely 3-course meal, with a bottle of wine tossed in. The menu del dia offered 18 choices for the 'first plate' - and over 20 for you to choose for your second -bacalao con pisto, cordero al horno, chuletas de cordero, magro con pisto, merluza ala plancha and cordonices (quail), either asodo (roasted), fritas (fried) or escabechadas (cooked in a vinegary marinade). "I'll have the quail" I said without having to think twice. My only problem was 'how?' I settled on 'escabechado' since I figured frying or roasting the little things might dry them out.
We picked the second best bottle of wine on the list, a bottle of Don Octavo, reserva 2001 from La Mancha. Although The Fleshtones have become fans of Manchego wines from playing in Tomelloso so often, this hearty' tinto' more than lived up to that region's tough reputation. My first plate choice, a platter of judias verdes (flat green beans), simmered with pieces of prosciutto-like Iberian ham, was just want I wanted, but Ken Fox's 'potage de garbanzos' was really something -a heaping bowl of chick peas laced with, besides more jamon iberico, big hunks of cardos, the giant celery-like vegetable known to (a very few) English speakers as cardoon. A whole fat link of morcilla (blood sausage) elbowed for room in the middle of the bowl.

Ah, Spain, the vegan's hell. Where else could a place like the 'Museo Del Jamon', a Madrid chain of cerveccerias, where the very walls are studded with whole hunches of ham -which also drip from the ceiling by their dainty cloven feet like stalactites (or are they stalagmites?) be considered to be tastefully decorated? Bill Milhizer says her Spanish food travelogue is great, but somehow I can't picture Gweneth Paltrow eating this stuff. Huddled together alone in the middle of my plate, my quail looked naked and pale, but their sharp, vinegary aroma was irresistable. Stuffed with a giant clove of garlic and a single bay leaf, the quail were succulent and tasty -I sucked the goodness off each pitiful little bone with a combination of relish and respect.
Although the time is always right for flan, afterwards I enjoyed 'caujados' sweetened with honey. Light and refreshing, it's a nostalgic dessert for anyone who can remember the Junket Rennet Pudding that was so heavily advertised on children's and family TV before the McDonaldization of the American palate winnowed out most of our food spectrum.
By the time we left the restaurant the sky had darkened and a biting wind swept us back into the severely overloaded van and off the high 'meseta' of central Spain into the province of Valencia. We sped past Fuenterobles (Spring Oaks) in the Utiel wine region (we didn't stop). The racing wind tore the clouds into steely shards and a rainbow appeared ahead as we descended into the piney mountains leading towards the warm Mediterranean sea.
Maybe I should have had my quail 'asado'?

-Peter Zaremba

next, Valencia, Barcelona, Leon and 'Don't Talk To Juancho'
photos: Ken Fox

"I'll Make A Note Of It!" -Larry Fine, 1948 (pt.1)

2009-11-25T08:58:00.000-08:00

part one: sin chorizo

The Fleshtone's first morning in Spain, Madrid Nov. 3, 2009 as 'snapped' by Luis 'Jimmy' Garcia. courtesy: Ken Fox

Sorry to have dropped off the map for a while. I had planned to keep you up on all the action from the road like a 'real' blogista, but without a laptop that could actually function as one (i.e. one not on life-support) it proved a lot harder than I had thought. Dealing with a tight schedule that kept us on the go, emotionally draining shows (my pleasure!) staying at hotels without Internet (can't use that excuse too much) then figuring out the Spanish keyboards at odd hours of the morning just made staying in bed a bit longer all the more attractive. "I'll make a note of it!" * Larry Fine would cheerfully respond when a belligerent Moe Howard would bluster "remind me to murder you!". Luckily, like the muy aimable Mr. Fine, I took notes, lot's of them, so I'll reconstruct the tour, blow by blow for you if you like. It was quite eventful and I've got to thank Sr. Jose 'Pepe' Ugena, the band and Spain itself for making it all possible. As advised, I'll keep it to a briefer more 'conversational' style like a 'real' blog, but you'll have to also forgive me if I get a bit expansive and meditative once in a while -in fact, right away. So all about Spain, although The Fleshtones are now back in the U.S.A. as we reunite with loved ones, make new plans and face new adventures sin chorizo.

Happy Thanksgiving!
Peter Zaremba

* many years after Larry's death sent me and a small coterie of followers (of Larry, that is) at the School Of Visual Arts into a state of near psychosis, I was MC at a Cavestomp event at the Polish National Home near my house here in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. Suddenly a follow student who I hadn't seen since the mid-70's rushed out of nowhere and exclaimed "now if we could only find that note..."

Island Routes launched in Jamaica, pt.1

2009-11-02T09:39:00.000-08:00

"What A Party That Was..." -Vivian Stanshall, 'Big Shot', 1967

October 4 through 6, Island Routes, a new 'Luxury Adventure' tour company was launched by the Sandals organization in Ocho Rios. Actually, Island Routes is already booking over 80 tours in Jamaica, and is soon to begin booking in St. Lucia, Antigua, TCI and the Bahamas. I was there covering it all for Modern Bride Magazine -which folded during the trip.

I've done a lot of this stuff -bamboo rafting a la Errol Flynn (in my case on the Great River), river tubing, YS Falls, Blue Mountain biking, meeting the 'crocs' in Black river, canopy zip-lining, riding with the Jamaican dog-sled team and the pilgrimage up to 9 Mile (birth/last resting place of Bob Marley) with Chukka Cove -and think they're all fantastic experiences. Exciting even. Jamaica is like that -a lot to offer. It can only help to have this wealth of attractions marketed (that sounds so business-like) by a company with a reach that small outfits just don't have on their own. Having someone reliable (alright -big)like Sandals behind it, Island Routes is positioned (how do you like that term?) to keep standards up, you know safety and stuff like that, provide snazzier transportation and besides, has a staff in decked out in cute safari outfits and pith helmets. If it's good for Jamaica, and in turn for the visitor, I'm all for it.

Big kid -courtesy of Mystic Mountain Rainforest Bobsled Jamaica

After checking into Sandals Dunns River, the press (the term reminds me how the 3 Stooges try to sneak into a racetrack as newsmen by using knobs from a bathroom as badges -Moe "press", Larry "press", Curly "pull") and guests were ski-lifted over 700 feet up Mystic Mountain to try out the Jamaican Rainforest bobsled ride (fast, faster and fun -even for a coot like me) and dinner in their new dining room that overlooks the twinkling lights of Ocho Rios.

Island Routes launched in Jamaica, pt.2 (big fish, Hooves Heritage Horseback Riding)

2009-11-02T09:36:00.000-08:00

Island Routes' Tony Ebanks, Canadian journalist Liz Fleming and dinner guest.

I love fishing (and sadly seldom do), so next morning I was raring to go when several of us went out aboard the 31' Bertram Sabrina. "Follow the birds" said the first mate, which we did, giving the outing a bit of epic, 'Moby Dick' aura. Sure enough, the 'man o' war' birds led us to where the baitfish were boiling. Although the captain regretted that the billfish had already migrated past the island's eastern tip, within seconds we hooked into a couple of fine bonito

Island Routes launched in Jamaica, pt.3 (night 3, Laughing Waters)

2009-11-02T09:31:00.000-08:00

That night there was a catamaran cruise over to Laughing Waters, scene of the memorable first encounter between Sean Connery and Ursula Andress in 'Dr. No' and now official holiday residence of Jamaica's Prime Ministers. Waiting there was a full-out 'Barefoot' beach party -Steel drums, limbo dancing, rhumba lines -the whole swinging scene, along with (among dozens of other dishes) the bonito we had caught earlier that day (raw in a ceviche-like 'salad' and as well as grilled).
The next day I signed up for the 'Heritage Beach' horseback ride at Seville Great House, which take you from the old estate (now a museum) through the (scant) remains of Jamaica's first Spanish capital Sevilla Nuevo, then a nice charge through the waves. Cold 'Red Stripe' only enhanced the 'old Jamaica' scene at the shore, with fishermen returning under sail and a pleasing view of St. Ann's Bay Town (birthplace of national hero Marcus Garvey).

Island Routes launched in Jamaica, pt.4 (night 3, Sandals Montego Bay)

2009-11-02T09:22:00.001-08:00

two representatives of Cool Runnins', Negril, official launch night

On the final night Island Routes was officially launched at Sandals Country Club Ocho Rios. MC Weston Houghton ran down the history of Jamaican popular music and dance from 'mento', through 'ska' and 'rock steady' (recalling that then dancers were so anchored to their spots the craze was dubbed 'rent-a-tile'). CEO Adam Stewart, inspired by a recent trip, explained, "In Africa everyone just assumes you're there to see their land, here in the Caribbean we never thought of it that way, but we've got just as much to offer". Island Routes GM, the fabulous Dominique Peterkin, and the girls then demonstrated all the latest dancehall moves like 'Signal The Aircraft' and 'The Gully Creepa' (God bless Jamaica, with all it's problems, still turning out dance crazes like it was the 60's).

One of the most pleasant surprises of the trip was spending a little time before the flight home at Sandals Montego Bay -the property that started it all for the 'all inclusive, couples only' empire. Yeah, yeah, that's 'couples only', but don't get the wrong idea (you're thinking of Hedonism). Originally The Roc Bay Hotel (designed by Edward Durell Stone, the architect of Radio City Music Hall), the 251 room resort has almost a 'boutique-ish' feel, that concentrates its lively vibe. Staying here puts you as close to the 'action' (and misadventures) afforded by Mo'Bay as you'd want to be, as well as to a quick getaway via Sangster International Airport when necessary. In fact, it was here that the perceived drawback of being located virtually at the end of a runway was creatively dealt with by instituting 'the wave'. I participated in at least one 'wave' while I was there and have to say the passing jets thing is no big deal. Sangster isn't JFK (thank God!).

Island Routes launched in Jamaica, pt.5 (Bellefield Great House)

2009-11-02T09:16:00.000-08:00

Earlier that morning we had visited Bellefield Greathouse in the foothills outside Montego Bay for a bit of 'living history'. Garbed in period costumes, the greathouse's 'cast' throw themselves into their roles as the estate's gossiping servants (with a surprise visit by their mistress). The tour winds up with a luncheon on the lawn (good jerk) accompanied by drumming and dancing. I particularly liked the visit to the cool 1794 sugarmill - large enough for it's interior to be converted into a recreation of an old Jamaica tavern. There we were served the sort of refreshing punch I love, mixed to the venerable rhyme thusly:
One part sour (lime juice)
Two parts sweet (simple syrup)
Three parts strong (white 'over-proof' rum)
and four parts weak (water)
Enjoy.

-Peter Zaremba
http://www.islandroutes.com/
http://www.sandals.com/

Time To Go pt.6 (biggest Fleshtones Spanish tour yet...)

2009-11-02T09:10:00.000-08:00

the return of Mr. Pro -just in time.

I Gotta Go (to Spain, that is)

I hate to talk about myself, but here's where the fun (We) will be in Spain, November, 2009:
Wednesday 4th - Valencia - "La Edad De Oro"
Thursday 5th - Barcelona - "Razzmatazz 3"
Friday 6th - Burgos - "Estudio 27"
Sáturday 7th - Vitoria - "Hell Dorado"
Sunday 8th - León - "Gran Café"
Monday 9th - Ponferrada "Cocodrilo Negro"

Wednesday 11th - Santiago - "NASA"
Thursday 12nd - Ferról - "Run Rum"
Friday 13th - Gijón - "Albeniz"
Sáturday 14th - Logroño - "Biribay Jazz Club"
Sunday 15th - Santoña (Cantabria) - "Tropicana Club"
Monday 16th - National radio RN3 "El Sotano"

Wednesday 18th - Granada - "Planta Baja"
Thursday 19th - Murcia - "12 y Medio"
Friday 20th - Madrid - "El Sol"
Saturday 21st - Petrer (Alicante) - "Club 2"

I'll try to catch up while 'on the road' but do drop by. It's always a blast in Spain!

Time To Go... pt.7 (liner notes)

2009-11-02T09:06:00.000-08:00

Liner Notes...
Those nice Norwegians, The Goo Men, have asked me to contribute some liner notes for their just completed third album. I'll have some time (I'll say) to come up with something as I foresee a lot of sitting in a van in my immediate future. It's suitable that I'll be writing this while being bounced around some Spanish roads. The liner notes I've written that I like the best were for Spain's Dr. Explosion, which almost reach the level of those written by that old master of the genre, Sir Lamprey Leech. For classic, 70's English 'serious rock' pomposity, the notes for the first Uriah Heep LP are pretty hard to beat, but what I really like are the notes where it's obvious the guy hasn't even bothered listening to the record. For sheer old-style rubber cement snip and paste indifference, it's hard to top Excello Record's excellent Lightin' Slim (Otis Hicks) album, (which was it, either 'Bellringer' or 'Rooster Blues'?-or perhaps they just used the same notes on both records) that the Spaeth brothers and I used to marvel over back in the Dark Ages. The notes paint a down-home picture of little Otis, stealing away as a child with his uncle's guitar to play the blues while waiting for the fish to bite, then later flatly states the he didn't learn to play the guitar until the age of 33. In the end they tie it all together by explaining that whenever Otis is asked what his favorite song on the album is, he invariably replies 'Bad Luck' "because it's brought him so much good luck" -naturally a song not on either LP. Down-home Excello probably just figured anyone buying the record was illiterate anyway. I think the Goo Men's favorite song on their new album shall be 'Bad Luck'...
-PZ

Where the rum comes from (or at least a bit of it) A drive up to Grenada's River Antoine Estate Distillery pt.1

2009-10-31T05:55:00.000-07:00

We're going for a drive in Grenada, half way around the world from Aitutaki. Leaving Maca Bana in the extreme southern 'tail' of the island, guide Roger Augustine and I began heading north up Grenada's west (Caribbean) coast. It's a beautiful tropical island in the volcanic, Windwards mold -soaring forest -clad mountains, steep cultivated valleys and rushing rivers. The road skirts a dramatic, wildly irregular coastline indented with palm-backed bays and coves, each embracing its own beach -gold, beige or volcanic 'black' sand -take your pick. We passed through a series of old towns, many bearing names that are a legacy of France's early dominion over the island.
Along the way:
Gran Roi: The King Of Calypso, Slinger Francisco 'the Mighty Sparrow' was born here, and not in Trinidad as often assumed (okay, as I assumed). Musically, Grenada is 'soca' country.
Concord Falls: Where a good-sized boa coiled in the rafters of a derelict zinc-roofed bus stop (or souvenir stand?). Right off the road and nice for a dip. If you're lucky you'll pass country folk coming down from the hills with loads balanced on their heads or pack-laden donkeys.
Dougaldston Spice Boucan: Step back a few centuries into this worn but working 'boucan' -French creole for drying platform (the word being 'barbecue' on islands with English heritage). "Boucan', 'Buccaneers', 'barbecue', jerked meat, that's all part of another story, but workers here will give a short explanation of the spices they process and their uses.
Gouyave Nutmeg Processing Plant: (old West Indies style warehouse). Lot's of nutmeg. What's great about these places is that they're working, traditional operations, not (yet) museums. I'll have more to say some other time about this spice that figures so prominently in Grenada's story that it's pictured on the national flag. The glossy, dark shells that are a bi-product of processing are so abundant, however, that they are used as an attractive mulch around plantings. Spread around homes the brittle shells also serve as a 'Grenadian burgler alarm". Gouyave is also the site of 'Fish Fridays' a big jump up with street music, food and of course -rum.
Spice Cloth Grenada, Concord: Printing/clothing workshop of designer Jessie-Ann Jessamy (in another old West Indies spice warehouse) where the girls are busy at work hand-screening nutmeg-motif prints to produce fashionable bags and clothing -distinctive and useful momentos of Grenada. Also rum (and samples) and other traditional Grenadian items like Morne Delice nutmeg jams and syrup (unusual and delicious) http://sites.google.com/site/spiceclothgrenada/
Grenada Bay: Swim in the sheltered 'rock pools' at Bathway Beach.

Where The Rum Comes From , pt.2 Petite Anse

2009-10-31T05:47:00.000-07:00

Way up north at the 'top' of the island we stopped for what Roger promised would be a memorable lunch. There aren't many places where you can actually tell exactly where you are on the globe by simply looking, but Petite Anse (from $120 low season -$250 high season including full English breakfast; www.petiteanse.com) is one of them. The view of the Caribbean and the Grenadine Islands sweeping northwestwards over the horizon is mesmerizing. Opened last March (2009) by English couple Philip and Anne with Iggy the Egret (a local), Petite Anse (little cove) has only 11 cottages and suites on a lush hillside; solar-heated water, 'eco-friendly', all with that astounding view. The Clifts grow much of their own organic fruit and vegetables for the restaurant. Pretty damned idyllic even for super-idyllic Grenada, although it may be a bit isolated for some travelers, or at least far from the St. George's/ Grand Anse 'action' -be that as it may. What do guests do up here besides relax on the beach and gape at the view? "Well" says Philip, "they can hit the bars in Sauteurs (French for 'leapers' -every island in the East Caribbean seems to have a place where the Caribs threw themselves over a cliff rather than submit to the Europeans), or a fisherman can take them out for a picnic out on Sandy Island, they can catch a fish, have a barbecue -they'll have the whole place to themselves." Petite Anse also provides their guests with local cellphones to keep in touch while off knocking around the island on their own, a welcome trend at 'boutique' hotels.

Where The Rum Comes From , pt.3

2009-10-31T05:43:00.000-07:00

Oh yeah, lunch -I tried the recommended callaloo ravioli, although Bernardo Bertucci of LaLuna (i.e. an Italian) would probably call them 'agnolotti'. I'd call them callaloo pierogi -after all, the head chef is Polish. Roger had the pan seared mahi mahi (even in the West Indies they have to call 'dolphin-fish' by it's Hawaiian name to avoid needlessly upsetting tourists) and the macaroni 'pie' (baked mac 'n cheese). He was right. This was one of my best meals on the island - and eating on Grenada, with it's creole based cooking and fresh tropical ingredients, is wonderful.

Rounding the island, we turned southwards along the East Coast, detouring up the landing strip of Pearls, Grenada's long-defunct original airport, where Grenadians now hone their driving skills. I was glad to see there's still a functioning 'Runway Bar' decades after the airport's abandonment (no, we didn't stop). After a passing glance at Lake Antoine (a water-filled volcanic crater -scenically unspectacular but excellent for bird-watching), tall stands of sugar cane crowding the road signaled that we were entering Antoine River Estate, a plantation dating from French rule.

Where The Rum Comes From pt. 4

2009-10-31T05:39:00.000-07:00

Established in 1785, a visit to River Antoine Distillery would be fascinating for anyone interested in early industrial-age technology in action (it's as if the 'Cutty Sark' was still doing commercial transatlantic runs), the plantation system, West Indian history and culture, rum or other artisanal food production -in fact, for anyone with any interests. I guess that would have ruled out Nico. The last time I was in Grenada I had visited Westerhall Estate Distillery (a source of 'Jack Iron' rum), and was greeted by mountains of pungent 'bagasse' or spent sugar cane. That's all a thing of the past. Now the island's rum is produced from imported molasses, that is except for River Antoine, which is still distilled from freshly pressed cane juice like the 'rhum agricole' of the French islands. I reckoned it would taste and smell as such.

Where The Rum Comes From pt. 5

2009-10-31T05:31:00.000-07:00

Entering the weathered distillery complex I was met by the sight of two towering, wood-fired copper 'pot stills'. You'd expect to see these sorts of antiques inside a museum, if they could fit. In fact, thanks to an attendant who was stoking the blazing furnaces with carefully chosen hunks of trees, they were happily cooking away. As I circled the distilling shed there was the cane mill, powered by a gigantic cast-iron waterwheel -the product of some long-gone English foundry. Workers fed a steady stream of cane into a wooden chute leading up to the press (yeah, watch those hands). With those infernal blazes and 'White Zombie' (1931) technology, a night tour would be very atmospheric, but perhaps dangerous. Afterwards, the 'bagasse' is dumped into a heap by a worker continuously pushing a cart back and forth along a short length of elevated tracks -supposedly Grenada's shortest, and only 'railroad' (unless you count the few yards of rail that the mace drying platforms roll on like giant drawers from underneath the Dougaldston Spice Boucan.) The cane juice flows along an open sluice into a building where it is concentrated in a succession of huge open vats, then fermented, again in the open air. The fermented 'wash' is then piped to those massive, prehistoric looking copper stills. "It takes 10 days from cane to rum" explained the guide, with all the product going out unaged or 'white' except for an excellent 36 proof bottled punch that's reminiscent of the Angostura version from Trinidad.

Where The Rum Comes From pt. 6

2009-10-31T05:26:00.000-07:00

People warned I may not find the odors of the distillery pleasant (in fact, nauseating), but there was absolutely nothing disagreeable in either the sweet, heady smell of the freshly crushed cane, its fermenting juices, or the very agreeable, faintly banana aroma of the (barely) finished product. After distillation, the rum's alcohol content is gauged by means of an antique (but ingenious) specific gravity scale, then adjusted to the desired proof with the addition of water. Of course samples are offered (you don't need more than a thimbleful of the Rivers Royale (75 -80%) over-proof to get the picture, or even of Rivers Rum, the slightly watered-down 69% version that's permissible for packing for your flight home. Even with that, this is pretty combustible stuff.

Distillery tour EC$5/$2USD p.p.
River Antoine Estate Distillery ( 473 442-7109; no website; email: riversrum@caribsurf.com)

Where The Rum Comes From pt. 7 Maca Bana

2009-10-31T05:15:00.000-07:00

the view from Maca Bana

Maca Bana
I was hosted in Grenada by Maca Bana -only a 5 minute walk from Maurice Bishop Airport (good story here) , so no time is wasted getting into relax mode at this cliff-top 'green' resort's 7 villa/cottages. Breath-taking vista of the Caribbean, St. George's and the mountains of Grenada from your bed (or hot tub). Directly below (steep) there's quiet Magazine Beach for swimming and snorkeling, then try the ginger-orange glazed lobster and other fresh seafood at Maca Bana's recently re-opened beach restaurant 'Aquarium' (www.aquarium-grenada.com) highly regarded by both locals and ex-pats. In fact, across the island I heard nothing but unsolicited praise for Uli Kühn & Rebecca Thompson, hard-working owners of Aquarium /Maca Bana). (from $295; www.macabana.com).

For colorful, old-school souvenirs like tea towels, table cloths and tee-shirts festooned with maps, Grenadian flags and island scenes; embroidered patches and other cool stuff (well, I think so), swing by the 'Shipwreck Department Store' (no website, tel: 440-1521) on Granby St, downtown St. George's near the market.

For more Grenada info:
www.letsgogrenada.com
www.grenadagrenadines.com

-Peter Zaremba

Was I Actually There? (Aitutaki) pt. 1

2009-10-27T18:39:00.000-07:00

A south-sea paradise proves even better than the fake one in 'A Brooklyn Gorilla Meets Bela Lugosi'

Since the band isn't doing much right now, I figured I'd start with this photo, taken in Aitutaki last March (2009). I then had the pleasure of traveling to The Cook Islands with a great press group including real deal photo-journalist Sergio Ortiz (http://www.sergiosfstop.com/), Kristin Luna (camelsandchocolate.com) and globe-trotter extraodinaire (and as I got to know, all-around swell guy) Johnny 'Jet' DiScala (http://www.johnnyjet.com/home.asp ). Johnny snapped the picture. I don't know if it was the power of suggetion, or some darker forces at work, but I kept thinking his name was DiMarco. It always beat me that the mad scientist in the film 'Astro Zombies' (USA, 1968) wasn't called some suitably Eastern-European sounding name like Zoloff or Zarnoff, but DiMarco. It was the late John Carridine, who in his portrayal of the infirm, but determined, Doctor exclaimed "commence immediate astro-mobilization!" (or something damn close to that). The Fleshtones admired those sentiments so much we used the quote on the fold-out for our album 'Powerstance' (Trafalgar Records, 1990). As you recall, that was during the band's brief foray as Australian recording artists.

As I was saying, the sudden (I'll say!!!) folding of Modern Bride Magazine, which I've been lucky enough to contribute to over the past eight years, has finally 'freed up' time for me to do a bit of writing without the stress of deadlines, or torturing myself to stay under 'word count'. You know, some travel (with and without The Fleshtones -God knows that couldn't help but give me some insights), food, who knows, maybe even some music. 'A life of excitement' like living In An Elvis movie. A overstatement true, but who wants to read about me going to Key Food to buy oatmeal? Now, even though the L himself was dismissive of his film career, who else could lay claim to being their very own movie genre? And there's something very attractive about a life (be it only a celluloid one) of wildly unrelated (except for their potential for excitement) occupations -Hawaiian helicopter guide, ex-Navy diver, race car driver, race car driver, etc -with the ability to find himself in the middle of at least a half dozen musical production numbers per outing, ending with Elvis getting the girl of his fancy for that particular movie -and actually being happy about it. How much better than his real-life loneliness and miserable death. But I'm not telling you anything you don't already know.

Was I Actually There? (Aitutaki) pt. 2

2009-10-27T18:36:00.000-07:00

It's about an hour's hop from the 'main island' of Rarotonga, where the international airport is located, to Aitutaki, pronounced 'Ah -too -taki' although locals seem to say 'Ah -too -tucky' as in 'Tucky Buzzard'. Even in the olden days this tiny speck in the middle of the vastness of the Pacific (pop. 2,000) somehow merited its own postage stamps. There was one pictured in the used Harris stamp catalogue (Aitutaki -comes after Aden Protectorate in the British Empire section) that my Uncle Eddie Ostach gave me when I was about 7 years old. Then I could have never in a million years imagined that one day I'd be living a block away from the Ostach's old home on Jewel Street in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. How many years did I spend obsessing on these little rectangles of paper and the far away places they represented? Just ask photographer Anders Goldfarb (www.andersgoldfarb.com) Hopefully, I'll have a link right here someday to the exciting tales of our pre-adolescent adventures in philately (wouldn't it be great if the 'link' could be so direct I wouldn't have to bother writing anything?).

The old Aitutaki stamp pictured a native chieftain striking a typically proud pose under a palm tree while sporting some outlandish mask or headdress (okay, I can't remember which) of the sort we grew up seeing extras wearing in jungle and south-sea island B-movies like 'Bela Lugosi Meets A Brooklyn Gorilla' (USA, 1952). Starring Lewis and Martin look-a-likes 'Duke' Mitchell and Sammy Petrillo (recently deceased, this August 17, 2009) -look for future musings on Petrillo, my teenage years in the cultural Dark Ages and the birth of The Fleshtones). I hadn't seen the film since the early 70's and dismissed it as a turkey -until our bassist Ken Fox urged me to take another look. Once again The Canadian Fleshtone judged wisely, 'The Brooklyn Gorilla' is far more entertaining than anything the real Lewis & Martin ever released -and it does contain Duke Mitchell's immortal come-on to a south-sea beauty: "It's hard to believe that's the same moon shining tonight over The Bronx, Brooklyn and Coney Island." Try that line while marveling at the star splashed Cook Island night sky.

At the tiny airport greeted with songs ('string band'), flowered leis, and a short drive (all drives are short here) to Pacific Resorts Aitutaki, the island's most stylish hotel. Along the way we passed through villages that straggled along the road very much like 'out island' settlements in The Bahamas, except for the tombs in people's front yards. Land in The Cooks is ancestral and despite migration, the families that pray together, stay together -forever.

Was I actually There? (Aitutaki) pt. 3

2009-10-27T18:31:00.000-07:00

From its lush, palm-lined drive to its zen-ed out reception flanked by Balinese reflecting lily pools, entering the The Pacific Resorts Aitutaki (www.pacificresort.com) is soothing, beautiful and 'cool'. An artificial waterfall dramatically cascades from under the restaurant to the swimming pool below which in turn overlooks the brilliant blue lagoon lined with royal palms. From our bungalow's back porches, steps led down to a white-sand beach strewn with huge boulders of black volcanic rock. Taking advantage of a few minutes break, we waded out into the luxuriously warm, shallow water. Sometimes you've got to pinch yourself, although some people might have been put off by the cove's abundance of sea cucumbers. Who knows, perhaps the stiff, turd-like creatures are just seasonal. They certainly don't pose a threat of any sort.

The gift shop was stocked with classy stuff -quality folk art and handicrafts, genuine ukuleles, the sort of mementos you actually would like to bring home to prove to yourself you were really here. An odd ceramic figurine of a white parrotfish covered with black paisley-like patterns was so unusual I took a picture of it. What was it, a candleholder, or something? Whatever it was, at the equivalent of $35USD, it was a bargain, but I'm not much of a shopper (or maybe the ideal one) as I'll almost always defer buying anything, then regret it later. Remember, with the NZ$ then running about 55¢USD, everything in the Cooks -great hotels, meals, booze, black pearls, stuff, was a steal. Regretting not buying the fish, I slunk past the gift shop later that evening. It was already closed. Later, at the manager's cocktail party I discussed the ceramic fish with Michael Shah, a real go-to GM as far as guest's needs. He regretted that as much as he'd like to help, the woman who runs the shop takes the keys home with her. She wouldn't be back to reopen until after we departed the island. I gave him my credit card information just in case.