This is really living. I'm sat by myself in a Mexican laundromat and grocery store. I'm eating one of Homer Simpson's doughnuts and drinking a can of "Energy Coffee Double Shot with Vitamins". Outside the window is the freeway, and I haven't got a car.
Here are a few things in my drink: Pamax. Phosphates. Cyanocobalium. And good old-fashioned L-Carnitine. It's really making me feel on edge, this drink. Like all these Mexicans know I'm not Mexican at all. If I wore a Viva Zapata t-shirt would they think I'm being ironic? I like how indifferent all these Mexicans look. Without a care in the world. Am I being racist? Oh God, I hope I'm not being racist. Relax. This is just the Pamax talking.
I could happily spend a long time in this Mexican laundromat. The guy behind the counter seems cool. He has long hair. When I ask him if I can leave my stuff in the dryer for a while he says "Yeah!" like I've asked if I can buy him a beer. Everyone else is just doing their laundry like a Mexican in a laundromat. That sounds like the punchline to a joke. "A Mexican in a laundromat!" I'll award a prize to anyone that can write a set-up.
You know what franchise someone should rip off and bring to London? The Alamo Drafthouse Cinema. There's a few of them scattered around town here. The tickets are cheap and they show all kinds of films but the best part - the selling point in my mind - is that you get fried pickles, beer and pizza brought to you during the film. They're all staffed by hip kids (I love hip kids!) and every evening they have special events like "Jiggy Krunk's 90's Pop Rap Singalong", zombie movie marathons and stand up comedy gigs where the comedian stands in front of a classic film and mocks it throughout. They even had an evening of Vietnamese spy films recently. Beat that Prince Charles! (The Soho cinema, not the heir to the throne).
The evening was the best kind of white-water, joy-ride of a night. We had originally planned to see a heavily-recommended rock band called Two Car Garage but it didn't work out like that. At the venue I'd spoken to a punter, asking them about the band, for about 10 minutes, before I realised said punter was in fact their singer-guitarist. It wasn't my fault - he was preturnaturally modest. Me: "What do they sound like?" Him: "Pretty normal I guess." Me: "Are they any good?" Him "They're ok."
To kill time before they started we went to a bar full of people watching television. Why would anyone do that? And they were watching a DVD of a film called Beerfest - a movie reviewers have called "chaotic and lame", and "aggressively, rampantly tedious". Why would any adult go to a bar and subject themself to this film? It's two hours long!
My mind was grappling with this question and others like it when a couple sat down in front of my friend and I. They were doing vodka shots and were very vocal about us coming back to their house to see their hot tub. Now I'm a reasonable man, but I've been around the block enough times to know that their invitation meant two possible things. Either we would be unwittingly initiated into the seedy world of some kind of Austin swingers cult, or we would be raped then killed. It could even be both. A debauched, masquerade ball in the Texan suburbs, culminating in a blood sacrifice.
Seth and Caren were actually very nice. They were young, married and had good taste in music. They did seem to be suffering slightly from that kind of anxiety people succumb to when they get married young. You know, when they become paranoid that their social lives are melting away. Next thing you know, your wife is up dancing on the bar, going "Whoo!" and telling random people "Oh, that's my husband, but we're cool like this". Are they cool like that? Or is everything turning to shit?
Anyway, they were lovely people and we did end up in their hot tub drinking whiskey. And it was all kosher, nothing horrible or sexy happened. I was only half expecting to go to the kitchen for ice, only to open the fridge door to see a decapitated head with an onion in its mouth looking back at me.
It was nice also to hear a waitress at Denny's (at 2am) say to us that she wanted to feed her two kids "healthy stuff". I'd hope there were more people like her out there because a lot of kids here have a diet that makes Jamie Oliver's dreaded Turkey Twizzlers look like a macrobiotic health-feast. One in nine American families can't afford to feed themselves properly and yet up to 25 per cent of children belonging to low-income families are obese or overweight nationwide. How is that even possible?
Thursday, November 27, 2008
November 11
Austin is music-obsessed. Probably the single most music-obsessed place I've ever been. Usually when you arrive in a place and ask the locals what there is to do around town they'll give you a couple of bars, restaurants and cafes. In Austin they'll tell you what bands are playing tonight, tomorrow and the day after. If you press them further and ask about places that don't necessarily have live music people will give you a confused look suggesting you've missed the point of Austin entirely.
Like most of the places I've grown to like and love in America, Austin kind of looks like a piece of crap. Everything is spread out and even the artsy, bohemian neighbourhoods contain shops that have to put up with eight lanes of traffic right outside the window. But put up they do, and Austin boasts some of the best vintage stores and record shops I've ever seen. In fact being here makes me nostalgic for second-hand record stores. I realise there are a few left in London but they're not quite right. Quite right is the know-it-all but pleasant guy behind the counter. Quite right is a spacious interior laid out according to the personal preferences of the staff. Quite right is a large wall of independent releases on vinyl and CD, accompanied by hand-written descriptions so you know what you're in for.
This isn't a record store. This is a Marks & Spencer's record store.
A cold front moved into Austin today. Let me tell you about an Austin cold front. It's not cold. And if I have one more Texan say "Britain huh? I bet you're loving this cold front!" I'm going to have to bust out the denim cut-offs to demonstrate how not-cold it is here. Yes Texas, your food is tastier and more plentiful, your people are friendlier and your cars are bigger. But your cold has nothing on our cold. So don't pretend you know what it's like to wake up in July and be greeted by a grey, rainy sky, because you have no idea.
Having said that, it is getting nippy in the evenings here.
Like most of the places I've grown to like and love in America, Austin kind of looks like a piece of crap. Everything is spread out and even the artsy, bohemian neighbourhoods contain shops that have to put up with eight lanes of traffic right outside the window. But put up they do, and Austin boasts some of the best vintage stores and record shops I've ever seen. In fact being here makes me nostalgic for second-hand record stores. I realise there are a few left in London but they're not quite right. Quite right is the know-it-all but pleasant guy behind the counter. Quite right is a spacious interior laid out according to the personal preferences of the staff. Quite right is a large wall of independent releases on vinyl and CD, accompanied by hand-written descriptions so you know what you're in for.
This isn't a record store. This is a Marks & Spencer's record store.
A cold front moved into Austin today. Let me tell you about an Austin cold front. It's not cold. And if I have one more Texan say "Britain huh? I bet you're loving this cold front!" I'm going to have to bust out the denim cut-offs to demonstrate how not-cold it is here. Yes Texas, your food is tastier and more plentiful, your people are friendlier and your cars are bigger. But your cold has nothing on our cold. So don't pretend you know what it's like to wake up in July and be greeted by a grey, rainy sky, because you have no idea.
Having said that, it is getting nippy in the evenings here.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
November 10
Smell you later San Antonio. Smell you later forever.
The Greyhound ride from San Antonio to Austin was a short one but it was memorable thanks to one Jonathan Pena. Jonathan was a pleasant, clean-cut Mexican kid who just happened to have been released from a juvenile prison after serving a year-long sentence for drugs and firearm offenses. Both Jonathan and I didn't like San Antonio, but I had the feeling he might have had a worse time of it than me.
He had been bounced from Austin, to Houston and then finally to San Antonio over the course of a year, because he was unable to peacefully co-exist with other inmates. He explained to me how if you were small you had to "beat the shit out of people" so they knew you weren't a pushover. Jonathan was 18, but had been in and out of correctional facilities since 15.
He wasn't bashful about showing me the accoutrement of life behind bars. He had a laminated OFFENDER card with his name, prisoner ID, and a terrifying photograph of him, shaven-headed, glaring into the camera. His most proud possession however, was a printout of the report which ended up putting him in solitary confinement for six weeks. In the section labeled "reason for confinement" a prison officer had written"inmate got into a fight with Rodriguez Benigno; said fight resulted in injuries to Rodriguez too serious for first aid".
"But Jonathan," I said. "You seem so nice."
Jonathan explained that he hadn't been at fault. This Benigno character had jumped him in the rec yard, clocking him in the face with a paper-weight inside a sock. True to character Jonathan then had to "beat the shit out of him".
The subsequent six weeks with no visitors, no recreation time and even worse meals than usual hadn't been pleasant but Jonathan believed that had he not made an example out of Benigno he would have been picked on again and again. So in some ways I think we all have a lot to learn from Jonathan Pena. At the office, on the train, or even at the supermarket, it's time that we, as a people, stop letting everyone else make our lives difficult. It's time to start beating the shit out of people.
There was also a young girl on the bus who told me that her friend, aged 17, had already given birth to five kids. That's amazing. Even the perma-pregnant teens of Caledonian Road would be impressed at that kind of rapid-fire spawning. She was also keen to talk about how tough it was financially, for a single-mother to raise that many children.
I was reminded of something Johnny Trask had said in New Orleans. A lot of the girls in the poor neighbourhoods, he said, couldn't see the point in getting a job when it was possible to get paid more in welfare cheques after having a baby. "These are some ignorant peoples", he said. Harsh, but coming from a former drug-dealer in New Orleans, oddly fair.
So, how hard is this single-parent malarkey? This 17-year-old mum with five kids. Let's assume she belongs to the 37 million people living in poverty in the United States. Apparently that means, in a household containing six people (five of which are infants), she has to bring in less than $27,000 anually. If she falls short of that hurdle, she technically classifies as living below the poverty line - as it is defined by the US Census Bureau in 2007.
The average income defecit for a family living in poverty in America is about $8000. If we apply this to the 17-year-old with five kids it means she is $8000 short of the $27,000 needed to not be poor in the eyes of the government.
However in America, or at least I think so, a lot of welfare benefits are not counted as part of your income. Medicare, Medicaid, food stamps, low-income energy assistance, and many more, none of it is cash so none of it gets added to your income when the people at the Temporary Assistance for Needy Families (TANF) programme work out just how needy you are. Theoretically, you could make up a lot of that $8000 in social security benefits but not have it register on anyone's radar.
On top of that if our girl has a job that pays at least $15,000 (much less than the McDonald's median wage), she can receieve an additional $4,700 in tax credit because of her kids.
Now obviously it's not an easy life. I can't assume that single mothers are having a big old laugh at the taxpayer's expense in Texas - where it's harder than elsewhere to qualify for cash assistance of any kind. But then if it's so hard and unpleasant why are so many girls in Texas rushing to get pregnant? A national report in 2007 found the state has the highest teen pregnancy rates in the country.
The Greyhound ride from San Antonio to Austin was a short one but it was memorable thanks to one Jonathan Pena. Jonathan was a pleasant, clean-cut Mexican kid who just happened to have been released from a juvenile prison after serving a year-long sentence for drugs and firearm offenses. Both Jonathan and I didn't like San Antonio, but I had the feeling he might have had a worse time of it than me.
He had been bounced from Austin, to Houston and then finally to San Antonio over the course of a year, because he was unable to peacefully co-exist with other inmates. He explained to me how if you were small you had to "beat the shit out of people" so they knew you weren't a pushover. Jonathan was 18, but had been in and out of correctional facilities since 15.
He wasn't bashful about showing me the accoutrement of life behind bars. He had a laminated OFFENDER card with his name, prisoner ID, and a terrifying photograph of him, shaven-headed, glaring into the camera. His most proud possession however, was a printout of the report which ended up putting him in solitary confinement for six weeks. In the section labeled "reason for confinement" a prison officer had written"inmate got into a fight with Rodriguez Benigno; said fight resulted in injuries to Rodriguez too serious for first aid".
"But Jonathan," I said. "You seem so nice."
Jonathan explained that he hadn't been at fault. This Benigno character had jumped him in the rec yard, clocking him in the face with a paper-weight inside a sock. True to character Jonathan then had to "beat the shit out of him".
The subsequent six weeks with no visitors, no recreation time and even worse meals than usual hadn't been pleasant but Jonathan believed that had he not made an example out of Benigno he would have been picked on again and again. So in some ways I think we all have a lot to learn from Jonathan Pena. At the office, on the train, or even at the supermarket, it's time that we, as a people, stop letting everyone else make our lives difficult. It's time to start beating the shit out of people.
There was also a young girl on the bus who told me that her friend, aged 17, had already given birth to five kids. That's amazing. Even the perma-pregnant teens of Caledonian Road would be impressed at that kind of rapid-fire spawning. She was also keen to talk about how tough it was financially, for a single-mother to raise that many children.
I was reminded of something Johnny Trask had said in New Orleans. A lot of the girls in the poor neighbourhoods, he said, couldn't see the point in getting a job when it was possible to get paid more in welfare cheques after having a baby. "These are some ignorant peoples", he said. Harsh, but coming from a former drug-dealer in New Orleans, oddly fair.
So, how hard is this single-parent malarkey? This 17-year-old mum with five kids. Let's assume she belongs to the 37 million people living in poverty in the United States. Apparently that means, in a household containing six people (five of which are infants), she has to bring in less than $27,000 anually. If she falls short of that hurdle, she technically classifies as living below the poverty line - as it is defined by the US Census Bureau in 2007.
The average income defecit for a family living in poverty in America is about $8000. If we apply this to the 17-year-old with five kids it means she is $8000 short of the $27,000 needed to not be poor in the eyes of the government.
However in America, or at least I think so, a lot of welfare benefits are not counted as part of your income. Medicare, Medicaid, food stamps, low-income energy assistance, and many more, none of it is cash so none of it gets added to your income when the people at the Temporary Assistance for Needy Families (TANF) programme work out just how needy you are. Theoretically, you could make up a lot of that $8000 in social security benefits but not have it register on anyone's radar.
On top of that if our girl has a job that pays at least $15,000 (much less than the McDonald's median wage), she can receieve an additional $4,700 in tax credit because of her kids.
Now obviously it's not an easy life. I can't assume that single mothers are having a big old laugh at the taxpayer's expense in Texas - where it's harder than elsewhere to qualify for cash assistance of any kind. But then if it's so hard and unpleasant why are so many girls in Texas rushing to get pregnant? A national report in 2007 found the state has the highest teen pregnancy rates in the country.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
November 9
THERE'S SHIT ALL TO DO IN SAN ANTONIO PART II
I'd like to protest the state of American convenience-culture for a moment. How much convenience does one nation need?
There are things in society that I erroneously believed were already convenient enough. The American convenience-experts frowned at these things and went to work on them - determined to make them easier to use or eat. For example: the convenience store. It's name would have you believe that it was convenient enough already. That would be wrong. Let's be honest we all love a convenience store but it can be tiring to walk from aisle to aisle, using our heads to look left and right at the items we want to buy. Then once we've decided what things to purchase, we then have to carry them out to our car. What bullshit. I wanted convenience, and here I am, on my feet, using my arms and hands like a farmer. Luckily the convenience-experts of America invented the drive-thru convenience store. Now I can sit in my car, shout "Beef! Toothpaste! A blue hat!" into a metal box and some peon will run around the store, collecting my items for me. Onwards and upwards America!
The convenience experts have also applied the same zero-tolerance approach to inconvenience in other areas; burgers for instance. I love a burger but like you I hate that period after I put a burger in my mouth and before it gets to my stomach. How can I eliminate those tiresome seconds spent chewing?
Turns out it's easy. The White Castle fast-food chain have created little burgers actually called Sliders. I don't have to explain how disgusting the concept of a Slider is because the name is doing it for me right now. But hold on one minute. Sliders are small and Americans are hungry. How the fuck is this going to work?
At that moment the convenience-experts whip out the "Crave Case". For a worryingly low price you can buy a blue and white case containing 30 Sliders. Think how much better your life would be if you had access to a Crave Case. You'd be the talk of the office for sure. And you'd certainly be a big hit on the Tube, guzzling tiny burgers out of a greasy, plastic suitcase.
The only logical next step has already been mapped out by The Onion.
I'd like to protest the state of American convenience-culture for a moment. How much convenience does one nation need?
There are things in society that I erroneously believed were already convenient enough. The American convenience-experts frowned at these things and went to work on them - determined to make them easier to use or eat. For example: the convenience store. It's name would have you believe that it was convenient enough already. That would be wrong. Let's be honest we all love a convenience store but it can be tiring to walk from aisle to aisle, using our heads to look left and right at the items we want to buy. Then once we've decided what things to purchase, we then have to carry them out to our car. What bullshit. I wanted convenience, and here I am, on my feet, using my arms and hands like a farmer. Luckily the convenience-experts of America invented the drive-thru convenience store. Now I can sit in my car, shout "Beef! Toothpaste! A blue hat!" into a metal box and some peon will run around the store, collecting my items for me. Onwards and upwards America!
The convenience experts have also applied the same zero-tolerance approach to inconvenience in other areas; burgers for instance. I love a burger but like you I hate that period after I put a burger in my mouth and before it gets to my stomach. How can I eliminate those tiresome seconds spent chewing?
Turns out it's easy. The White Castle fast-food chain have created little burgers actually called Sliders. I don't have to explain how disgusting the concept of a Slider is because the name is doing it for me right now. But hold on one minute. Sliders are small and Americans are hungry. How the fuck is this going to work?
At that moment the convenience-experts whip out the "Crave Case". For a worryingly low price you can buy a blue and white case containing 30 Sliders. Think how much better your life would be if you had access to a Crave Case. You'd be the talk of the office for sure. And you'd certainly be a big hit on the Tube, guzzling tiny burgers out of a greasy, plastic suitcase.
The only logical next step has already been mapped out by The Onion.
November 8
THERE'S SHIT ALL TO DO IN SAN ANTONIO PART I
I don't mean to "rag" on a particular city. It's not my intention to black-ball a place so that you never go there. But let me put it this way: following New Orleans with San Antonio is like tearing yourself away from a never-ending jazz party held in a crystal bubble orbiting the Earth, to jump on the Circle Line to Snaresbrook. And not the good bit of Snaresbrook either.
So in lieu of anything interesting to say about the place in which I find myself, I present you with:
FIVE GREAT PLACES TO EAT THE NEXT TIME YOU QUIT YOUR JOB AND GO TO THE AMERICAN SOUTH
1) Blue Plate Cafe, Store St, Memphis. Do you want to get big and fat? Come here! Even if you don't order pancakes, biscuits and waffles you'll get them anyway. It's the perfect American breakfast. Added bonus: Menus which look like newspapers. What a gas!
2) Clover Grill, Bourbon St, New Orleans. It's open 24 hours a day, and they'll cook your enormous burger in a god damned hubcap. Added bonus: Milkshakes so thick you'll puncture a lung. Plus there's a world-hating, Nietzsche teenager who works in there who sounds and looks like the spotty-faced teen from the Simpsons.
3) Stack 'em High, The Outer Banks, North Carolina. A great breakfast place with all the usuals, plus an effective, surfery vibe. Added bonus: The owner looks like Will Ferrell and he'll come and talk to you.
2) Mother's Restaurant, Poydras St, New Orleans. Rough and ready Cajun fare like jambalaya, endouillie and gumbo. All of it's spicy and delicious and the staff are like a live-action sitcom, performing for your in-meal entertainment. Added bonus: LL Cool J eats here! You also get the local police department dropping in to chat with the staff and help themselves to food. Plus, the staff remember your name after one visit and say "Hey Joseph!" in a highly suggestive way when you walk in.
1) Gus's, Memphis. I don't know where it is because we were taken there in a car at night time but it is the best fried chicken I've ever eaten. It's so tiny in there that from the outside it barely registers as a restaurant. Added bonus: none needed. Best chicken ever.
I don't mean to "rag" on a particular city. It's not my intention to black-ball a place so that you never go there. But let me put it this way: following New Orleans with San Antonio is like tearing yourself away from a never-ending jazz party held in a crystal bubble orbiting the Earth, to jump on the Circle Line to Snaresbrook. And not the good bit of Snaresbrook either.
So in lieu of anything interesting to say about the place in which I find myself, I present you with:
FIVE GREAT PLACES TO EAT THE NEXT TIME YOU QUIT YOUR JOB AND GO TO THE AMERICAN SOUTH
1) Blue Plate Cafe, Store St, Memphis. Do you want to get big and fat? Come here! Even if you don't order pancakes, biscuits and waffles you'll get them anyway. It's the perfect American breakfast. Added bonus: Menus which look like newspapers. What a gas!
2) Clover Grill, Bourbon St, New Orleans. It's open 24 hours a day, and they'll cook your enormous burger in a god damned hubcap. Added bonus: Milkshakes so thick you'll puncture a lung. Plus there's a world-hating, Nietzsche teenager who works in there who sounds and looks like the spotty-faced teen from the Simpsons.
3) Stack 'em High, The Outer Banks, North Carolina. A great breakfast place with all the usuals, plus an effective, surfery vibe. Added bonus: The owner looks like Will Ferrell and he'll come and talk to you.
2) Mother's Restaurant, Poydras St, New Orleans. Rough and ready Cajun fare like jambalaya, endouillie and gumbo. All of it's spicy and delicious and the staff are like a live-action sitcom, performing for your in-meal entertainment. Added bonus: LL Cool J eats here! You also get the local police department dropping in to chat with the staff and help themselves to food. Plus, the staff remember your name after one visit and say "Hey Joseph!" in a highly suggestive way when you walk in.
1) Gus's, Memphis. I don't know where it is because we were taken there in a car at night time but it is the best fried chicken I've ever eaten. It's so tiny in there that from the outside it barely registers as a restaurant. Added bonus: none needed. Best chicken ever.
November 7
And on to San Antonio, Texas. We took the train for a change. It was an impressive, shiny train but unfortunately it was the slowest vehicle I've ever crossed a country in. A journey that takes between eight and nine hours by car took more than 15 hours on this train. The driver was obviously guilt-stricken at quite how long his train took to go anywhere as he decided to treat his passengers to a running commentary, designed to educate us in the ways of rural America, throughout the day. It wasn't a great commentary. At one point told us that:
"After the rice has been harvested [long pause] the farmers harvest the rice".
We arrived in San Antonio at 3am and it's deserted. Lucky for us the cheap motel we've booked is right around the corner. Right? I mean, they wouldn't flagrantly lie to us and locate their motel on the map at least 15 blocks from its actual location, leaving us no option but to trek through deserted neighborhoods in the dead of night, laden with enough money cameras and credit cards to make a Japanese coach tour blush? Oh wait, they would? How lucky for us! And look, dangling from those telephone lines, aren't those sneakers - very likely indicating this is where someone was recently shot? Why yes. And there's another pair! What an authentic experience we're having.
An hour later we arrived at the motel - which was so far north of its advertised location we may have actually crossed into Oklahoma. Ill, with no voice and not happy with the suspiciously crusty blanket on my bed I told myself that tomorrow would be better. San Antonio is a fun place. Right?
"After the rice has been harvested [long pause] the farmers harvest the rice".
We arrived in San Antonio at 3am and it's deserted. Lucky for us the cheap motel we've booked is right around the corner. Right? I mean, they wouldn't flagrantly lie to us and locate their motel on the map at least 15 blocks from its actual location, leaving us no option but to trek through deserted neighborhoods in the dead of night, laden with enough money cameras and credit cards to make a Japanese coach tour blush? Oh wait, they would? How lucky for us! And look, dangling from those telephone lines, aren't those sneakers - very likely indicating this is where someone was recently shot? Why yes. And there's another pair! What an authentic experience we're having.
An hour later we arrived at the motel - which was so far north of its advertised location we may have actually crossed into Oklahoma. Ill, with no voice and not happy with the suspiciously crusty blanket on my bed I told myself that tomorrow would be better. San Antonio is a fun place. Right?
Saturday, November 15, 2008
November 6
After all the screaming and shouting on election night I've succumbed to a dreadful disease. If this is the price I have to maintain my local celebrity (I'd guess that I'm approaching state-wide levels of recognition now) then so be it.
A guy called Johnny Trask, who I originally started talking to about reggae, decided that he would drive my friend and I around the Lower Ninth Ward of New Orleans today. That was the part of the city which was wiped out entirely by Katrina four years ago. He took us to the neighborhood where he grew up and the house in which his family had lived for generations. There is absolutely nothing there now. It's just long grass for block after block after block. I took a whole bunch of notes while he was explaining the entire catastrophe so in the interests of brevity I'll save writing it up for another time.
By the way, do you know what I'm most envious of when it comes to America? Free speech? No. We have that at Hyde Park Corner and I'm happy to quarantine all those people right there. Is it the right to bear arms? Well, there are a lot of people in London I'd like to shoot, but the right to bear arms only extends so far when it comes to building you personal arsenal. That's no good if I want some kind of assault rifle or, at a stretch, the "Old Faithful" gattling-gun from Predator. No what I really covet in America is their cafes.
What? The cafes? In America? Yes. Nashville, Memphis and New Orleans are blessed with some of the coolest cafes I've ever had the pleasure to waste time in. They're huge places, filled with kids on laptops and friends playing chequers after work. Seriously, America has no business cultivating such bohemian hubs of art and creativity. I demand the Federal Reserve pour money into a scheme to get the American youth back into the burger bars, diners and pizzerias. Stop embarassing Europe with your tastefully appointed, spacious and (crucially) liquor-licensed culture-havens.
Everything that makes a city pleasant is present and correct in New Orleans. Trams - beautiful wooden trams - run all over the place. Ceiling fans. Ceiling fans everywhere! Even outside, attached to wooden shop fronts which overhang the pavement. And lastly there are big, hand painted signs written onto brick walls everywhere. All cities should have these things.
New Orleans even has Hell's Angels. Well, one. This particular Hell's Angel, a short, muscular dude with a buzz-cut and a long, point beard in his sixties, was also the owner of New Orleans' most elaborate Halloween display. Taking up every inch of his porch, Brad had put together an "Undead Wedding" diorama featuring two hooded skeleton guards, a skeleton riding a real motorbike, a zombie bride and groom which actually moved up and down the aisle, and of course a zombie priest. Brad talked about his diorama in a serious way, like a stern father discussing his son's progress through college.
"Yeah, it turned out pretty good this year," he said. "I was real happy with the bride. Her neck sprays blood everywhere."
I was impressed by the benefits attached to being a Hell's Angel. It seems that any time you are in trouble you can call upon your "bros" who will ride into town and beat up whoever you want . There was a rogue painter-decorator in New Orleans who was ripping off old people - tricking them into handing over their savings before leaving whatever job they'd been paid to do unfinished. Brad was going to call up his bros on this guy. They were going to put him in "a world of pain".
I'm sure Brad and his friends did plan to batter the handyman with several feet of lead piping but I had a feeling that when it came down to it Brad wouldn't actually hurt anyone these days. He was a nice old guy. Sure, he's probably given his fair share of chain-fisted beatings over the years but him talking sounded liek an old boxer boasting to his family about getting into the ring one more time. An old Hell's Angel is basically just a vaguely-tough motorbike enthusiast.
A guy called Johnny Trask, who I originally started talking to about reggae, decided that he would drive my friend and I around the Lower Ninth Ward of New Orleans today. That was the part of the city which was wiped out entirely by Katrina four years ago. He took us to the neighborhood where he grew up and the house in which his family had lived for generations. There is absolutely nothing there now. It's just long grass for block after block after block. I took a whole bunch of notes while he was explaining the entire catastrophe so in the interests of brevity I'll save writing it up for another time.
By the way, do you know what I'm most envious of when it comes to America? Free speech? No. We have that at Hyde Park Corner and I'm happy to quarantine all those people right there. Is it the right to bear arms? Well, there are a lot of people in London I'd like to shoot, but the right to bear arms only extends so far when it comes to building you personal arsenal. That's no good if I want some kind of assault rifle or, at a stretch, the "Old Faithful" gattling-gun from Predator. No what I really covet in America is their cafes.
What? The cafes? In America? Yes. Nashville, Memphis and New Orleans are blessed with some of the coolest cafes I've ever had the pleasure to waste time in. They're huge places, filled with kids on laptops and friends playing chequers after work. Seriously, America has no business cultivating such bohemian hubs of art and creativity. I demand the Federal Reserve pour money into a scheme to get the American youth back into the burger bars, diners and pizzerias. Stop embarassing Europe with your tastefully appointed, spacious and (crucially) liquor-licensed culture-havens.
Everything that makes a city pleasant is present and correct in New Orleans. Trams - beautiful wooden trams - run all over the place. Ceiling fans. Ceiling fans everywhere! Even outside, attached to wooden shop fronts which overhang the pavement. And lastly there are big, hand painted signs written onto brick walls everywhere. All cities should have these things.
New Orleans even has Hell's Angels. Well, one. This particular Hell's Angel, a short, muscular dude with a buzz-cut and a long, point beard in his sixties, was also the owner of New Orleans' most elaborate Halloween display. Taking up every inch of his porch, Brad had put together an "Undead Wedding" diorama featuring two hooded skeleton guards, a skeleton riding a real motorbike, a zombie bride and groom which actually moved up and down the aisle, and of course a zombie priest. Brad talked about his diorama in a serious way, like a stern father discussing his son's progress through college.
"Yeah, it turned out pretty good this year," he said. "I was real happy with the bride. Her neck sprays blood everywhere."
I was impressed by the benefits attached to being a Hell's Angel. It seems that any time you are in trouble you can call upon your "bros" who will ride into town and beat up whoever you want . There was a rogue painter-decorator in New Orleans who was ripping off old people - tricking them into handing over their savings before leaving whatever job they'd been paid to do unfinished. Brad was going to call up his bros on this guy. They were going to put him in "a world of pain".
I'm sure Brad and his friends did plan to batter the handyman with several feet of lead piping but I had a feeling that when it came down to it Brad wouldn't actually hurt anyone these days. He was a nice old guy. Sure, he's probably given his fair share of chain-fisted beatings over the years but him talking sounded liek an old boxer boasting to his family about getting into the ring one more time. An old Hell's Angel is basically just a vaguely-tough motorbike enthusiast.
November 5
Well stuff kind of looks the same. No change yet.
That's not strictly true. There's definitely a strange (technical political term coming up) buzzy atmosphere in the streets. You hear snippets of fidgety, disbelieving conversations. Homeboys are driving around playing My President by Young Jeezy at full volume with their windows down. It feels like everyone under 30 is especially loved-up right now. Usually I might instinctively kick against all this positivity but like Scrooge before the window at Bob Cratchit's Christmas I have suffered a collapse of reason and of judgement.
Do you know why it's hard for me to remember how significant and how important the Obama victory is? The American media. The American media is a garish trash-compactor which will open its maw to anything that can be commodified. Regardless of how interesting or edifying the subject was originally, it all ends up as sugary garbage. It is an effort to retain a sense of how historic this moment is when the television, radio and magazine industries are so intent on battering their audiences with a shitstorm of banality - a shitstorm which right now has Barack Obama's huge face at its eye. I'm used to rejecting someone or something if the media is intent on pushing them or it into my face. Sienna Miller. Banksy. The pop and rock music of the kids today. Now Barack Obama is entering into the same orbit. Fight it Joe. Remember this.
By the by we've met some interesting characters while in New Orleans. Here are a few:
Papa Boogie: an old man sat outside a seafood restaurant on Oak Street. He's lectured "all over the world" on the subjects of metaphysics and mysticism. He also makes elaborate wood carvings.
Papa Lino: a skeletal, barely ambulatory East African-looking guy in dark shades, a fedora, a sharp suit and lots of gold jewellery. Everyone knows him and seems to love him. He says he's a drummer. Hard to imagine.
Doc Brown: a trumpet player who asks "gospel, blues, jazz or soul?" to random passers-by. Claims to have been James Brown's bandleader for two decades. Told me that he understands funk music on a different level to all other humans.
That's not strictly true. There's definitely a strange (technical political term coming up) buzzy atmosphere in the streets. You hear snippets of fidgety, disbelieving conversations. Homeboys are driving around playing My President by Young Jeezy at full volume with their windows down. It feels like everyone under 30 is especially loved-up right now. Usually I might instinctively kick against all this positivity but like Scrooge before the window at Bob Cratchit's Christmas I have suffered a collapse of reason and of judgement.
Do you know why it's hard for me to remember how significant and how important the Obama victory is? The American media. The American media is a garish trash-compactor which will open its maw to anything that can be commodified. Regardless of how interesting or edifying the subject was originally, it all ends up as sugary garbage. It is an effort to retain a sense of how historic this moment is when the television, radio and magazine industries are so intent on battering their audiences with a shitstorm of banality - a shitstorm which right now has Barack Obama's huge face at its eye. I'm used to rejecting someone or something if the media is intent on pushing them or it into my face. Sienna Miller. Banksy. The pop and rock music of the kids today. Now Barack Obama is entering into the same orbit. Fight it Joe. Remember this.
By the by we've met some interesting characters while in New Orleans. Here are a few:
Papa Boogie: an old man sat outside a seafood restaurant on Oak Street. He's lectured "all over the world" on the subjects of metaphysics and mysticism. He also makes elaborate wood carvings.
Papa Lino: a skeletal, barely ambulatory East African-looking guy in dark shades, a fedora, a sharp suit and lots of gold jewellery. Everyone knows him and seems to love him. He says he's a drummer. Hard to imagine.
Doc Brown: a trumpet player who asks "gospel, blues, jazz or soul?" to random passers-by. Claims to have been James Brown's bandleader for two decades. Told me that he understands funk music on a different level to all other humans.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
November 4
Dereck Balama is in! He did it. What's the opposite of an Uncle Tom? I want to be one! Hooray for Bork Bandera! Change we can! Change we can! I for one welcome our new negro overlord.
I began the day without a plan. I was going to watch wall-to-wall election coverage - that was a given - but I had no idea where. Luckily while I was sat on my ass reading the New York Times, sipping cafe au lait and eating beignets like an effete, European prince my friend was out and about. She spotted a poster for an Obama party at bar. They had an Obama cake and were promising "live, uninterrupted TV coverage until Obama wins". Although I thought this was a significant commitment (if he loses do we sit by the bar watching CNN until he stands again in 2012?) we decided to risk it.
I am forever indebted to my friend for spotting that poster because it turned out to be the alpha and omega of election parties. The politics nerd in me was scared that I would arrive and find the "live TV coverage" to be a single television above the bar showing the news with the volume off. I would be the angry killjoy, bent over a novelty cocktail (Obamamanhattan?) straining to lipread as Anderson Cooper and Wolf Blitzer announce McCain the winner.
By the way: Wolf Blitzer - great name in journalism or greatest name in journalism? I don't mean his career and legacy. I just mean his name.
As is usually the case my hyperactive pessimism was uncalled for. For a start the party was in a small concert venue at the back of the bar. It held a massive projection screen showing CNN at full volume. The turnout was huge too - the place was filled to capacity by about 7.30, with between 500 and 700 people crammed in. During commercials the DJ - Soul Sista - played records and psyched up an audience who didn't need much psyching up. Excitement stemmed partly from the dawning of a new age of American politics and partly from the half-price drinks offer for anyone wearing an Obama t-shirt. Everyone was wearing an Obama t-shirt.
The mood was surprisingly serious initially. Most people really were there to watch the election - beer gripped in white-knuckled hand, cheering whenever CNN gave Obama an early projected lead in a close-run state.
What sticks with me after that was the feeling of momentum. Virginia? Take it. Pennsylvania? Yes please. Florida? Why not. Ohio? Keep them coming. Colorado? Well, I really am full but... go on then! It seemed to get louder and louder, faster and faster until that moment where it suddenly became mathematically inevitable and an enormous, screaming cheer went up in the bar, outside the bar, in the street and in all the houses in New Orleans as Obama's face flashed up on the screen. CNN Projection: Barack Obama elected President of the United States of America.
Interesting aside: on the same evening Obama was elected the 44th President of the United States of America, Michigan legalised medical marijuana. Coincidence, or early warning sign of Mr Obama's imminent "reefer agenda"?
McCain's concession speech was received politely, until the moment when he thanked Sarah Palin, at which point the crowd booed loudly. Despite the next day's papers which wrote admiringly of the Arizonan senator's speech I found it brittle - even by the standards of a loser's speech. And I like John McCain (a lot of people will be saying that now). Ok, true, he had just been crushed like a mummified scarab beetle under the caterpillar tread of some kind of allegorical tank which I can't quite make a metaphor out of at the moment. But come on. At least feign interest John. Had you won you would be forever known as the man who cock-blocked America's youth.
Barack made a great speech, but these things are his stock in trade. He's got a good rhythm to them: list things in threes, wait for applause, utter something profound and stare into the distance with a sense of grim purpose, smile winningly, repeat until palm of hand is crowded by audience.
What a fantastic first family. The Clintons and the Bushes are just dynasties - political brand names that just hang aound Capitol Hill even when they're not actually occupying the White House. Clintons and Bushes are to the White House what crack heads are to Super 8 Motels. Just hanging around there. The Obama household is one that you'd want to be invited to if you were at school with their kids. It's crazy that these guys are going into the White House. Good crazy! I'm not racist!
The evening got louder and madder as it got later and I remember at one point saying "I bet I can get on stage". Five minutes later I was actually up on stage giving what felt like a barnstorming speech, calling for a new dawn on Anglo-American relation. My drunken ego was reassured by the loud cheers from the audience whenever I left a "meaningful" pause. I was electric. Move over old man Obama - it's time for real change.
Sadly, unfortunately, my friend videotaped the whole thing and what you'll see if you watch it (and if you ask me I will show it to you - I'm that vain) is a semi-incoherent wino ranting nonsense with an unlit cigarette in his hand. At one point I just start shouting the names of European countries. Randomly. Worst of all I end by saying "God bless you, and God bless America... goodnight New Orleans!" as if I can't decide whether I want to be a politician or the singer of an 80s arena rock band.
And as for the cheering audience, well they were cheering so that must count for something, right? No. Consider I was the first person onstage after Obama's acceptance speech, broadcast live from Chicago. The audience were emotional, delusional and probably as happy as they'd ever been in their lives. I could have come onstage dressed as Robert Mugabe and read out the names of children killed by the Nazis during World War II and I still would have been received like Cicero addressing the masses at the Temple of Jupiter.
The rest of the night was a suitably epic melange of dancing, shouting and oath-swearing. After my historic speech I was something of a celebrity in that corner of the French Quarter and people would come up and pat me on the back saying "great speech!" or "we did it!" For some reason I thought it was funny to look them straight in the eye and calmly say "No, I did it."
One odd thing that struck me was this: Pretty much everyone in that room was wearing something with Obama's name or face on. There's that iconic Shepard Fairey HOPE one, a Geuxbama t-shirt which somone gave me, stickers with his name on in the style of the New Orleans water meters, a t-shirt with an illustrated Obama ripping open his shirt to reveal a Superman costume, and a huge number of personalised garments. Before Obama made his acceptance speech all these people (myself included), were rooting for an outsider, a part-counter-culture, part-mainstream figure that was being willed to succeed because people love him. And judging by some of the dancing a few of the girls there were doing with the life-size Obama cardboard cutout, they really love him. After he made that speech however he's the president-elect, and you have a room full of people dancing around, cheering and chanting the name of their actual leader. The only other country where this happens is North Korea. Not even the Chinese pretend to be that enamoured with their government.
But hey, who gives a rat's ass? I haven't even tried to hide my Obamaniacal tendencies over the past few months. It's nice to be part of something so big and so positive for a change. It's nice to be part of this big, weird group made up of young people, poor people and ethnic-minorities. Most of all it's nice that the first song they played once Obama finished his speech was Tear The Roof Off The Sucker (Give Up The Funk) by Parliament. Because isn't that what we all want? The funk? When George Clinton and his pals demanded: "We want the funk, Give up the funk, Ow, we need the funk, We gotta have that funk!" weren't they really saying ""We want universal healthcare, Give up the reputable foreign policy, Ow, we need the termination of Bush tax cuts for the wealthy, We gotta have that end to the infingements to constitutional rights in the name of homeland security and small government!"
Actually Barack is really missing a trick by not scrapping whatever he's using now as his entrance theme and using instead another Parliament track: Chocolate City. I don't know if those still-smarting McCain supporters would get as big a kick out of it as I would though:
And look there's Jesse Jackson crying his eyes out in the crowd. Didn't he want to cut Obama's balls off a few weeks ago? Maybe he's crying because he's out of a job. Cantankerous Civil Rights leader made redundant by sexy black president shocker!
Good night New Orleans!
Barack made a great speech, but these things are his stock in trade. He's got a good rhythm to them: list things in threes, wait for applause, utter something profound and stare into the distance with a sense of grim purpose, smile winningly, repeat until palm of hand is crowded by audience.
What a fantastic first family. The Clintons and the Bushes are just dynasties - political brand names that just hang aound Capitol Hill even when they're not actually occupying the White House. Clintons and Bushes are to the White House what crack heads are to Super 8 Motels. Just hanging around there. The Obama household is one that you'd want to be invited to if you were at school with their kids. It's crazy that these guys are going into the White House. Good crazy! I'm not racist!
The evening got louder and madder as it got later and I remember at one point saying "I bet I can get on stage". Five minutes later I was actually up on stage giving what felt like a barnstorming speech, calling for a new dawn on Anglo-American relation. My drunken ego was reassured by the loud cheers from the audience whenever I left a "meaningful" pause. I was electric. Move over old man Obama - it's time for real change.
Sadly, unfortunately, my friend videotaped the whole thing and what you'll see if you watch it (and if you ask me I will show it to you - I'm that vain) is a semi-incoherent wino ranting nonsense with an unlit cigarette in his hand. At one point I just start shouting the names of European countries. Randomly. Worst of all I end by saying "God bless you, and God bless America... goodnight New Orleans!" as if I can't decide whether I want to be a politician or the singer of an 80s arena rock band.
And as for the cheering audience, well they were cheering so that must count for something, right? No. Consider I was the first person onstage after Obama's acceptance speech, broadcast live from Chicago. The audience were emotional, delusional and probably as happy as they'd ever been in their lives. I could have come onstage dressed as Robert Mugabe and read out the names of children killed by the Nazis during World War II and I still would have been received like Cicero addressing the masses at the Temple of Jupiter.
The rest of the night was a suitably epic melange of dancing, shouting and oath-swearing. After my historic speech I was something of a celebrity in that corner of the French Quarter and people would come up and pat me on the back saying "great speech!" or "we did it!" For some reason I thought it was funny to look them straight in the eye and calmly say "No, I did it."
One odd thing that struck me was this: Pretty much everyone in that room was wearing something with Obama's name or face on. There's that iconic Shepard Fairey HOPE one, a Geuxbama t-shirt which somone gave me, stickers with his name on in the style of the New Orleans water meters, a t-shirt with an illustrated Obama ripping open his shirt to reveal a Superman costume, and a huge number of personalised garments. Before Obama made his acceptance speech all these people (myself included), were rooting for an outsider, a part-counter-culture, part-mainstream figure that was being willed to succeed because people love him. And judging by some of the dancing a few of the girls there were doing with the life-size Obama cardboard cutout, they really love him. After he made that speech however he's the president-elect, and you have a room full of people dancing around, cheering and chanting the name of their actual leader. The only other country where this happens is North Korea. Not even the Chinese pretend to be that enamoured with their government.
But hey, who gives a rat's ass? I haven't even tried to hide my Obamaniacal tendencies over the past few months. It's nice to be part of something so big and so positive for a change. It's nice to be part of this big, weird group made up of young people, poor people and ethnic-minorities. Most of all it's nice that the first song they played once Obama finished his speech was Tear The Roof Off The Sucker (Give Up The Funk) by Parliament. Because isn't that what we all want? The funk? When George Clinton and his pals demanded: "We want the funk, Give up the funk, Ow, we need the funk, We gotta have that funk!" weren't they really saying ""We want universal healthcare, Give up the reputable foreign policy, Ow, we need the termination of Bush tax cuts for the wealthy, We gotta have that end to the infingements to constitutional rights in the name of homeland security and small government!"
Actually Barack is really missing a trick by not scrapping whatever he's using now as his entrance theme and using instead another Parliament track: Chocolate City. I don't know if those still-smarting McCain supporters would get as big a kick out of it as I would though:
They still call it the White HouseOr how about Blackened by Metallica? Ha!
But that's a temporary condition, too.
Can you dig it?
Tell 'em to make sure they got their James Brown pass
And don't be surprised if Ali is in the White House
Reverend Ike, Secretary of the Treasure
Richard Pryor, Minister of Education
Stevie Wonder, Secretary of FINE arts
And Miss Aretha Franklin, the First Lady
A chocolate city is no dream
And look there's Jesse Jackson crying his eyes out in the crowd. Didn't he want to cut Obama's balls off a few weeks ago? Maybe he's crying because he's out of a job. Cantankerous Civil Rights leader made redundant by sexy black president shocker!
Good night New Orleans!
Sunday, November 9, 2008
November 3
Sorry non-southern Americans but I forgot how much better the accents are down here than up there. I was eatin' ma' usual southern breakfast of eggs, biscuits, gravy n' grits (ok, not grits, I don't like grits) and there was a group close by who were from California - or one of them other fancy places. I'd forgotten how nice the folks down here sound. My ears have been spoiled. It took the grating, nasal tones of the "y'know", "like" and "totally awesome" crowd to make me remember. So thank you Yankee, Unionist scum, thanks for that. The New Orleans accent is a real winner by the way, but apparently it's on the wane.
It's quite touching how everyone you meet here in New Orleans genuinely wants to know whether you like the city. When they find out you do (and there really is no other appropriate reaction) they tell you to go back home and tell everyone you know so that they come. All the city's people, from old musicians to cab drivers to hip kids, all seem desperate to put New Orleans back on the map as a post-Katrina tourist destination. Tourism isn't a dirty word here. People are thirsting for it. So come yea Europeans and Asians! Come to wonderful New Orleans! You probably won't die!
I saw some exceptional, face-shredding free-jazz tonight in a bar that was just about dilapidated enough to do justice to the uncompromising, blasting noise being created on and around the stage. The band was made up of a white drummer, a (splendidly afro'd) Jewish double-bassist and two black horn players. This bodes well for Barack Obama tomorrow night. All races working together to create atonal non-music! Yes we can deconstruct conventional performance and composition art theory!
It's quite touching how everyone you meet here in New Orleans genuinely wants to know whether you like the city. When they find out you do (and there really is no other appropriate reaction) they tell you to go back home and tell everyone you know so that they come. All the city's people, from old musicians to cab drivers to hip kids, all seem desperate to put New Orleans back on the map as a post-Katrina tourist destination. Tourism isn't a dirty word here. People are thirsting for it. So come yea Europeans and Asians! Come to wonderful New Orleans! You probably won't die!
I saw some exceptional, face-shredding free-jazz tonight in a bar that was just about dilapidated enough to do justice to the uncompromising, blasting noise being created on and around the stage. The band was made up of a white drummer, a (splendidly afro'd) Jewish double-bassist and two black horn players. This bodes well for Barack Obama tomorrow night. All races working together to create atonal non-music! Yes we can deconstruct conventional performance and composition art theory!
November 2
New Orleans is not like the rest of America. And by "America" I mean a gross, oversimplification based on the four per cent that I've seen. If the other 96 per cent is like New Orleans however I would be surprised. Nawleans is kind of a country all of its own. A few people I've met who live here say it's like living inside a surreal, blissful dream. The weather is beautiful, the streets are somewhere between Montpelier and Havana, the food is consistently great and the people are a laid-back, happy-go-lucky bunch. It's so nice here, so spookily pleasant, that part of your brain tells you that it's all an illusion and the whole fragile charade is liable to come crashing down at any moment. Which of course it is. We're below sea level here. All God has to do is fart in the bath and New Orleans is finished. The city's motto is laissez les bon temps roulez. This could be construed as a plea. No one knows how much time this place has left in general. Can they at least be good times?
People are unstoppably friendly here. You can't help but meet people. Even if you were a pathalogically unsociable mouth breather who had a perpetually running nose and a full neck beard you would still find friendship in New Orleans.
We went to a perfect jazz and blues club that night. It was the kind of smokey dive that as a jazz and blues fan you pray you will one day run into. If jazz and blues clubs were porridge this one was just right. I met a 70-something guy in a smoking jacket (said he wanted to "bring them back"), who owned a popular blues club in New York for 20 years. He had been good friends with Lightning Hopkins - a blues hero of mine. Apparently Lightning never owned a telephone so if you wanted to contact him you had to call on his barber who would go off to find him. That Lightning!
I also had someone offer to buy me a drink in what can only be described as an incredibly hostile fashion. Chance, a be-Stetsoned man from Texas, moseyed up to the bar and said he'd buy me and my friend whatever we wanted. Being English and therefore preturnaturally polite I think I asked him "are you sure?" one too many times (twice). "Boy," he growled. "If you ask me that one more time I'm gonna knock you the fuck out." Chance was many things but he wasn't a fabricator so I accepted my drink quietly.
Incidentally New Orleans is the only place I've been where the bums and tramps shamble up and sing jazz standards to you for money. They sing them pretty well too.
People are unstoppably friendly here. You can't help but meet people. Even if you were a pathalogically unsociable mouth breather who had a perpetually running nose and a full neck beard you would still find friendship in New Orleans.
We went to a perfect jazz and blues club that night. It was the kind of smokey dive that as a jazz and blues fan you pray you will one day run into. If jazz and blues clubs were porridge this one was just right. I met a 70-something guy in a smoking jacket (said he wanted to "bring them back"), who owned a popular blues club in New York for 20 years. He had been good friends with Lightning Hopkins - a blues hero of mine. Apparently Lightning never owned a telephone so if you wanted to contact him you had to call on his barber who would go off to find him. That Lightning!
I also had someone offer to buy me a drink in what can only be described as an incredibly hostile fashion. Chance, a be-Stetsoned man from Texas, moseyed up to the bar and said he'd buy me and my friend whatever we wanted. Being English and therefore preturnaturally polite I think I asked him "are you sure?" one too many times (twice). "Boy," he growled. "If you ask me that one more time I'm gonna knock you the fuck out." Chance was many things but he wasn't a fabricator so I accepted my drink quietly.
Incidentally New Orleans is the only place I've been where the bums and tramps shamble up and sing jazz standards to you for money. They sing them pretty well too.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
November 1
For most carless visitors to America traveling from state to state is done either by train (bland, expensive) or Greyhound bus (stinking, unreliable). For the journey from Memphis to New Orleans, Louisiana my friend and I took the third, less fashionable option: clapped-out, converted school bus covered in white and purple graffiti. This came about after I'd randomly chatted to a guy called Ryan outside of a cafe. I mentioned in passing that we were heading to New Orleans and before I could say "wait, did you say schoolbus?" he'd offered us a ride.
Ryan had driven with his friend Kristee from Chicago, where they lived, in the crazy bus which they'd bought cheaply in New York. They'd ripped out all the seats on the inside and installed a bed, under which lived an understandably skittish cat. Both in their late-twenties they were fantastically normal for people traveling through the South in what could be described as a spaceship from a hippy's half-remembered LSD-nightmare. Okay, Kristee spoke to me for a while about the cat's insecurities and phobias, but some people really love cats. And sure, Ryan had spent a part of his youth as a "gutter punk", living off crystal meth on the streets of San Diego, but who hasn't?
Ryan had even had a crack at being a rail-car riding hobo, hopping from city to city. Apparently there's a mysterious pamphlet called The Crew Change, written by a legendary hobo who wrote down everything he knew about the hobo life. The book gives you the locations of all the major train yards and the times at which the train crews change, allowing the cunning hobo to sneak aboard. Ryan vividly remembered him and friends freezing at the back of an empty carriage, passing round the whiskey flask. Unfortunately they went 100 miles before realising they were heading in the wrong direction. Obviously the hobo book isn't as clear as it could be as Ryan's navigational skills seemed very good to me.
I could really get used to traveling this way. And it's a real plus that it has next to no suspension as the bumpy journey keeps the driver awake on long stretches of cornerless, Mississippi road, preventing crashing and death.
Ryan had driven with his friend Kristee from Chicago, where they lived, in the crazy bus which they'd bought cheaply in New York. They'd ripped out all the seats on the inside and installed a bed, under which lived an understandably skittish cat. Both in their late-twenties they were fantastically normal for people traveling through the South in what could be described as a spaceship from a hippy's half-remembered LSD-nightmare. Okay, Kristee spoke to me for a while about the cat's insecurities and phobias, but some people really love cats. And sure, Ryan had spent a part of his youth as a "gutter punk", living off crystal meth on the streets of San Diego, but who hasn't?
Ryan had even had a crack at being a rail-car riding hobo, hopping from city to city. Apparently there's a mysterious pamphlet called The Crew Change, written by a legendary hobo who wrote down everything he knew about the hobo life. The book gives you the locations of all the major train yards and the times at which the train crews change, allowing the cunning hobo to sneak aboard. Ryan vividly remembered him and friends freezing at the back of an empty carriage, passing round the whiskey flask. Unfortunately they went 100 miles before realising they were heading in the wrong direction. Obviously the hobo book isn't as clear as it could be as Ryan's navigational skills seemed very good to me.
I could really get used to traveling this way. And it's a real plus that it has next to no suspension as the bumpy journey keeps the driver awake on long stretches of cornerless, Mississippi road, preventing crashing and death.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
October 31
Halloween! Americans love the Halloween and you know what, so do I while I'm here. It makes our Halloween look like a half-assed local community event. In the States it's such a big deal that it spills over into November. People deck out their entire house and then spend days slaving over their costumes. We had the choice of either a house party (on a commune) with six live bands or a night at the Hi-Tone with three live bands and a burlesque show. We chose the latter, but not before catching an NBA game in which the local no-hopers (the Grizzlies) beat Orlando Magic 88-86 with hilariously-named star player Rudy Gay scoring the winning basket with 0.8 seconds left on the clock. Already four gins in on the evening, the excitement was almost too much to bear.
I left myself precious little time to dedicate to a Halloween costume and I settled on "1970s Pink Floyd Fan" out of necessity rather than choice. My friend, who was already wearing a somewhat-nautical looking dress simply bought a $5 sailing hat and became a fairly convincing sailor. Girls are clever like that.
The best costume I saw all night in terms of sheer effort was a guy - an art student predictably - dressed as a packet of Pall Mall cigarettes. I came across at least three Sarah Palin (who if God willing isn't the second most powerful person on the planet by the time you're reading this), the best of which also happened to be a fat, bearded drunk man. He even had a plastic gun. "I love guns nearly as much as I hate abortion," he said.
He was a volatile chap, at one point telling me I was "a fucking asshole", and then adding after a long pause "that was a joke".
The bands were good, especially the guys who played a full 12-minute version of Ina-Gadda-Davi-Da to a rapidly emptying room at 2am. That takes all kinds of balls. It was a burlesque evening however, and the local Memphis Belle-esques (ha!) troupe were as good as a gang of young, tattooed, naked, fire-breathing girls should be. A round of e-applause for the ladies.
I was slightly shocked at how young people in Memphis have really embraced the drink-driving. They stagger out of bars and get straight into their cars. Obviously I condemn drink-driving and would never condone or glamourise it. Operating a vehicle while inebriated is irresponsible. So I probably shouldn't have climbed into the passenger seat of that BMW 3-series with two trainee-lawyers (dressed, incidentally as a nurse and Cleopatra).
Cleopatra turned out to be a local celebrity whose mum dated Elvis. None of this was verified by anyone apart from her and to be honest saying your mum dated Elvis in Memphis is a bit like saying your mum in London went to Asda.
I'd like to add finally that a crack head in the street (who was with his crack-bride) told me I look like Bruce Springsteen. Memphis truly is a great city.
I left myself precious little time to dedicate to a Halloween costume and I settled on "1970s Pink Floyd Fan" out of necessity rather than choice. My friend, who was already wearing a somewhat-nautical looking dress simply bought a $5 sailing hat and became a fairly convincing sailor. Girls are clever like that.
The best costume I saw all night in terms of sheer effort was a guy - an art student predictably - dressed as a packet of Pall Mall cigarettes. I came across at least three Sarah Palin (who if God willing isn't the second most powerful person on the planet by the time you're reading this), the best of which also happened to be a fat, bearded drunk man. He even had a plastic gun. "I love guns nearly as much as I hate abortion," he said.
He was a volatile chap, at one point telling me I was "a fucking asshole", and then adding after a long pause "that was a joke".
The bands were good, especially the guys who played a full 12-minute version of Ina-Gadda-Davi-Da to a rapidly emptying room at 2am. That takes all kinds of balls. It was a burlesque evening however, and the local Memphis Belle-esques (ha!) troupe were as good as a gang of young, tattooed, naked, fire-breathing girls should be. A round of e-applause for the ladies.
I was slightly shocked at how young people in Memphis have really embraced the drink-driving. They stagger out of bars and get straight into their cars. Obviously I condemn drink-driving and would never condone or glamourise it. Operating a vehicle while inebriated is irresponsible. So I probably shouldn't have climbed into the passenger seat of that BMW 3-series with two trainee-lawyers (dressed, incidentally as a nurse and Cleopatra).
Cleopatra turned out to be a local celebrity whose mum dated Elvis. None of this was verified by anyone apart from her and to be honest saying your mum dated Elvis in Memphis is a bit like saying your mum in London went to Asda.
I'd like to add finally that a crack head in the street (who was with his crack-bride) told me I look like Bruce Springsteen. Memphis truly is a great city.
Monday, November 3, 2008
October 30
Went to a different part of Memphis today - the Cooper Young district. Allegedly it's the up and coming, hip neighbourhood but it still has a bit of a way to go. I ended up talking to a group of hairy young refuseniks, a couple of whom worked at the local hostel which operated a bit like a commune. They were pretty down on America as a whole and asked me if London had many vegetarians. At one point a crack head sauntered up, mooching for money and cigarettes.
"You know the election?" he mumbled in his crack head voice. "You voting for that guy?"
"I'm voting for Ralph Nader," said one of the guys whose name was Adam.
"Man," said the crack head. "You are crazy."
Adam told me that Memphis had been the location for America's first African American model neighbourhood in the early 70s: Orange Mound. It was for a short time a perfect example of empowerment, cooperation and all that other good stuff until the 80s when it was ripped apart by crack cocaine. Today it's slowly on the way up but Memphis' mayoral and gubernatorial offices are so corrupt that urban areas like Orange Mound are pretty much left to fester.
Young Avenue Deli. Great place but it was worrying that by 5 o' clock everyone that worked there was drunk. They were so drunk that at one point the entire staff left the bar to race each other, on foot, up and down the middle of the road. Still, it had great music. Could I be any happier drinking local beer while lining up Frank Zappa, Judas Priest and Neil Young on the jukebox? No. No, I couldn't. By the way here are some of the great local beers that I and my friends, both old and new, have drunk in the last two weeks across the South: Yuengling, Dreamweaver, Yazoo Pale, Carolina Blonde, Endless Summer, Pischa Pale, Ghost River, Warsteiner Pilsner.
I like being British here because people open up to you with almost no cajoling or wheedling. Maggie Louise told us about her conservative father being surprisingly accepting of her being gay. She was from Millington. "But there ain't much to do up in Millington," she said.
That evening we went to an open mic night at the local artsy cafe. I was particularly impressed by the performance of Z-Bob, the local hobo.
"Now," said Z-Bob to the audience. "I am nobody. I done nothing. I done wrote a book called The King of Nothing. But the Man stood there and said the poetry for me."
The locals are not so impressed by Z-Bob. I think they've been overexposed to him. One guy, Warren, had been hit by a car three weeks ago and was lying in the road when Z-Bob had wandered over to talk to him about "how people be".
"Jesus Christ Z-Bob," screamed Warren. "Just get me an ambulance!"
Z-Bob played a startlingly dramatic classical piano piece for us that night. I think he'd be a big hit in London. Does anyone want to put out for Z-Bob's air fare?
"You know the election?" he mumbled in his crack head voice. "You voting for that guy?"
"I'm voting for Ralph Nader," said one of the guys whose name was Adam.
"Man," said the crack head. "You are crazy."
Adam told me that Memphis had been the location for America's first African American model neighbourhood in the early 70s: Orange Mound. It was for a short time a perfect example of empowerment, cooperation and all that other good stuff until the 80s when it was ripped apart by crack cocaine. Today it's slowly on the way up but Memphis' mayoral and gubernatorial offices are so corrupt that urban areas like Orange Mound are pretty much left to fester.
Young Avenue Deli. Great place but it was worrying that by 5 o' clock everyone that worked there was drunk. They were so drunk that at one point the entire staff left the bar to race each other, on foot, up and down the middle of the road. Still, it had great music. Could I be any happier drinking local beer while lining up Frank Zappa, Judas Priest and Neil Young on the jukebox? No. No, I couldn't. By the way here are some of the great local beers that I and my friends, both old and new, have drunk in the last two weeks across the South: Yuengling, Dreamweaver, Yazoo Pale, Carolina Blonde, Endless Summer, Pischa Pale, Ghost River, Warsteiner Pilsner.
I like being British here because people open up to you with almost no cajoling or wheedling. Maggie Louise told us about her conservative father being surprisingly accepting of her being gay. She was from Millington. "But there ain't much to do up in Millington," she said.
That evening we went to an open mic night at the local artsy cafe. I was particularly impressed by the performance of Z-Bob, the local hobo.
"Now," said Z-Bob to the audience. "I am nobody. I done nothing. I done wrote a book called The King of Nothing. But the Man stood there and said the poetry for me."
The locals are not so impressed by Z-Bob. I think they've been overexposed to him. One guy, Warren, had been hit by a car three weeks ago and was lying in the road when Z-Bob had wandered over to talk to him about "how people be".
"Jesus Christ Z-Bob," screamed Warren. "Just get me an ambulance!"
Z-Bob played a startlingly dramatic classical piano piece for us that night. I think he'd be a big hit in London. Does anyone want to put out for Z-Bob's air fare?
October 29
Hey this is exciting. Six days to go and the election is absolutely everywhere - even in Tennessee, a state so foregone in its redness that any result other than a crushing victory for McCain-Palin would be shocking. The great thing is that in America the election bewitches the whole media. This general election hath possessed them. In the UK politics has to fight for relevance among indifferent TV schedules, advertising hoardings and magazine articles. This year in America politics is bleeding through every pore on society's greasy face. Every chat show monologue, every ad break, every conversation overheard at a diner, they're all gearing up for November 4's political Armageddon.
A guy called Donny told me that Memphis was the centre for racism in America. I kind of see what he means. Things are still a little segregated. Black people and white people live side by side but they don't seem to be on the same page.
As a final note I'd like to announce that I had my Greatest Ever Toilet Experience today. I went to take a slash at the King's Palace bar on Beale Street and in the corner of the toilet - quite a small, dingy toilet - there was an old man in sunglasses, facing the wall, smoking and playing trumpet. If every toilet had one of these I'm sure there would be no disease, war or poverty in the world.
A guy called Donny told me that Memphis was the centre for racism in America. I kind of see what he means. Things are still a little segregated. Black people and white people live side by side but they don't seem to be on the same page.
As a final note I'd like to announce that I had my Greatest Ever Toilet Experience today. I went to take a slash at the King's Palace bar on Beale Street and in the corner of the toilet - quite a small, dingy toilet - there was an old man in sunglasses, facing the wall, smoking and playing trumpet. If every toilet had one of these I'm sure there would be no disease, war or poverty in the world.
October 28
And now I'm walking in Memphis.
Memphis is great. What a great place. I love it in Memphis. If Nashville is powered by country music and rhinestones then Memphis is the blues and dirt. Admittedly it's harder to get around than Nashville, things are more spread out, and the only people walking in the streets are bums and crazies, but the kids are cooler overall and there's a lot going on.
We dropped in on Sun Studios - the tiny place where rock music was invented in the mid-50s. Considering the building's place in music history you'd expect more of a fanfare but it's a pokey little building standing by itself next to a main road. It's still a functioning recording studio.
Funny anecdote. I was sat in the Sun Studios Diner - a fun place built onto the side of the music studio - when a guy pulls up in a swish, pink Cadillac. This guy looks the business; he's in his late fifties, wearing a tailored grey suit with an expensive looking haircut and Elvis Costello glasses. He's sitting there in a booth drinking a coke float, smoking a cigarette, reading the newspaper and looking for all the world like the spirit of rock n' roll made in the image of man. Who is this guy, thinks I, a Sun Records executive? A legendary guitar player?
Well it turns out he's nobody really. His name is Tad and he drives people around Memphis in his Cadillac giving guided tours. The funny thing is that while I was busy gawping at Tad and positing him as some kind of rock n'roll pioneer I completely missed WS Holland (Johnny Cash's drummer) quietly come in, drink a coffee and leave.
Made friends with one of the Sun Studios guides, Lydia, and she's become our Memphis mentor, driving us about a bit and showing us where's good to go. I'd also like to give an e-shout out to Ms Lisa - an ol' black lady who has worked at Sun for decades. She likes to talk about all the old blues and rock musicians who's come in and flirt with her back in the day. She must have just missed out on having sex with Elvis though - he would have been getting obese in Vegas by the time she arrived at Sun. Ms Lisa had just bought a small house and was worried that she wouldn't have enough money for Christmas presents for her kids, grandkids and, yes, great grandkids.
We went out with Lydia to a battle of the bands contest at the Red Rooster bar that evening. One band had actually dropped out so it was more of a battle of the band. A civil war. I think by now I've already seen more live music (most of which I haven't even mentioned) in Nashville and Memphis than I have in the last couple of years living in London. This band were good. The singer had a nice Gram Parson's thing going on. My friend and I helped load up their van afterwards (a creepy black vehicle appropriately named Uncle Paedophile), and the evening was only slightly spoiled by their young, trendy-looking drummer telling me the sad state of the music industry was the fault of "the Jews". He didn't really say it in a mean way though. Apart from that he was a nice guy.
Memphis is great. What a great place. I love it in Memphis. If Nashville is powered by country music and rhinestones then Memphis is the blues and dirt. Admittedly it's harder to get around than Nashville, things are more spread out, and the only people walking in the streets are bums and crazies, but the kids are cooler overall and there's a lot going on.
We dropped in on Sun Studios - the tiny place where rock music was invented in the mid-50s. Considering the building's place in music history you'd expect more of a fanfare but it's a pokey little building standing by itself next to a main road. It's still a functioning recording studio.
Funny anecdote. I was sat in the Sun Studios Diner - a fun place built onto the side of the music studio - when a guy pulls up in a swish, pink Cadillac. This guy looks the business; he's in his late fifties, wearing a tailored grey suit with an expensive looking haircut and Elvis Costello glasses. He's sitting there in a booth drinking a coke float, smoking a cigarette, reading the newspaper and looking for all the world like the spirit of rock n' roll made in the image of man. Who is this guy, thinks I, a Sun Records executive? A legendary guitar player?
Well it turns out he's nobody really. His name is Tad and he drives people around Memphis in his Cadillac giving guided tours. The funny thing is that while I was busy gawping at Tad and positing him as some kind of rock n'roll pioneer I completely missed WS Holland (Johnny Cash's drummer) quietly come in, drink a coffee and leave.
Made friends with one of the Sun Studios guides, Lydia, and she's become our Memphis mentor, driving us about a bit and showing us where's good to go. I'd also like to give an e-shout out to Ms Lisa - an ol' black lady who has worked at Sun for decades. She likes to talk about all the old blues and rock musicians who's come in and flirt with her back in the day. She must have just missed out on having sex with Elvis though - he would have been getting obese in Vegas by the time she arrived at Sun. Ms Lisa had just bought a small house and was worried that she wouldn't have enough money for Christmas presents for her kids, grandkids and, yes, great grandkids.
We went out with Lydia to a battle of the bands contest at the Red Rooster bar that evening. One band had actually dropped out so it was more of a battle of the band. A civil war. I think by now I've already seen more live music (most of which I haven't even mentioned) in Nashville and Memphis than I have in the last couple of years living in London. This band were good. The singer had a nice Gram Parson's thing going on. My friend and I helped load up their van afterwards (a creepy black vehicle appropriately named Uncle Paedophile), and the evening was only slightly spoiled by their young, trendy-looking drummer telling me the sad state of the music industry was the fault of "the Jews". He didn't really say it in a mean way though. Apart from that he was a nice guy.
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