By Popular Demand

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

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!

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

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!