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

France
(backstage -Le VIP, St-Nazaire)

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

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

Antoine Bucieck, road manager

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


The Bellrays, no worse for wear...

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


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

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

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

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

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


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


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

Tomorrow: Reims, city of Kings and Champagne!

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


Reims...

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


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

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

la boite a cigarettes de 'Johnny' -official

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

I'll Take Sweden...

-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.