I'll Take Sweden...

-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...)

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

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

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)

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

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

'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'