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Tuesday, May 31, 2005

 

Sunshine of your love

Yet another day in the sun.

It’s amazing how the Internet has shrunk the world. I met up with a California resident who previously sold me stuff on Ebay and shipped them to me in Singapore, and when I saw him listing some new stuff on Ebay it suddenly occurred to me that he was just a half hour drive away, so we met up about a week back. His name is Carter, and like me he’s got a penchant for old, weird, funky guitar stuff, so today he brought me to a big yard sale where he gets great stuff sometimes.

It’s a bigger version of Sungei Road Thieves Market. For the benefit of those of you who don’t know what that is, it’s basically a place where people hock all sorts of stuff, layed out on groundsheets. Some of it ranges from outrageous (used shaver blades? For what, AIDS sample testing?) to intriguing. Well, one man’s junk is another man’s treasure.

This one that I went to was much bigger, with a lot more interesting artifacts. The location was an old drive-in theatre converted into a big open space, where people drove up their vans and trucks into designated lots and unloaded their stuff. Among some of the more interesting items were antique cameras, toys, obsolete electronic equipment and testers and even a slide rule, all from an era gone by. Some others were rather dubious, like the rusty shovels, broken spanners and broken plastic housings while others were downright ridiculous, like a bunch of guys flogging a mountain of trashy lingerie. Ah well, it adds to the colour and excitement of the whole place. You never know what you’ll find. Call me eccentric, but sometimes you might just find a personal treasure among the whole mountain of junk.

For today though, there wasn’t any such treasure to be found, though I did get something that I think an alcoholic friend of mine will appreciate.

After that, I made my way back to Hermosa Beach to check out what the festival was like in the afternoon. I’m glad I did.

The rows of white tents lined an intersection in an X shape, showcasing work by painters, photographers, sculptors and all sorts of eclectic clothing and costume jewelry. It was a beautiful sunny day and Californians were out to enjoy Memorial Day in all its’ glory. People of all ages strolled down the stalls, taking in the sights and perusing the displays. For the most part, the people themselves were a pretty sight too. Young ladies in bikini tops and flirty skirts, MILFs pushing baby prams, all finely packaged in summer attire.

The magnificent canines on display were a sight to behold too. Bulldogs, Labradors, Retrievers, Boxers, Mastiffs, Pugs and several other breeds all had their day in the sun, sometimes drawing coos, pets and rubs from admiring females. If this is a dog’s life, sign me up.

Minus the silly dog clothing and accessories please.

I hit the beach and again its’ beauty didn’t fail to amaze me. This time, it was bathed in sunshine and there were more beach-goers, adding colour and life to the cream-coloured shoreline. Sun-tanning babes were eye-candy icing on the cake, making it an entirely pleasurable visual experience. From the pier, the waves lapped the sand in periodic sinusoidal fashion. Surfers and surfers-in-training spread out across the coast to catch the wave, which never really did get very big though, just enough to crash into the shore and froth like the foamy head on a fresh pint of Guiness. Trust me, it’s a very nice mental image to have on a warm day.

I don’t know if I can ever step foot on Sentosa without feeling that something is missing.

Monday, May 30, 2005

 

Keepin' it real

On I went to Café Boogaloo.

A big guy with a handlebar moustache, wearing a straw hat and Hawaii shirt sat outside the door. That’s Bob the bouncer (got a ring to it eh?). I paid my ten bucks cover, which was to be the best ten bucks I’ve ever spent in my life.

The place itself was pretty much like any other pub along the street, and it was jam packed like the others. Bottles of liquor lined the wall behind the bar alongside at least 15 beer taps. Definitely a sight for sore eyes. The small stage occupied a corner of the room, with a little clearing in front serving as a dance floor. Smoky grill wafted through the air from the kitchen, working its magic on my nostrils every now and then. The din of lively chatter and laughter completed the picture.

Holding a pint of Lost Coast IPA in my hand, I was all ready for the evening. I struck up conversation with some fellow blues enthusiasts while waiting for the band to begin. One of them is Collin Miller, an engineer by day who indulges his hobby of photography taking pictures of blues musicians, and running this website detailing most of LA’s blues scene. He’s got some great pictures, check them out.

Another one is J.R., who happens to know Enrico Crivallero. He’s an Italian guitar hotshot who blew our socks off when he hit our shores, and is also a fantastically nice guy. I had the honour of jamming with him along with Ublues and the rest of the festival performers during one of the Ublues festivals. Anyways, J.R’s a pretty cool guy who’s chummy with a couple of blues cats on the scene, and he introduced me to Junior Watson. Now, those of you who know blues will know that this guy is the real deal when it comes to West Coast blues. As luck would have it, Watson was going to play guitar for Harman that night.

As I sat at the bar, Harman came around to get a drink, and we got to talking. He's a big guy with a long beard, almost like a modern day Santa Claus, except for the flowy shirt and baseball cap. It’s a little hard to understand his drawl, but he’s always got a story or anecdote to tell. He shared some insights into his music, and talked about how he and Junior Watson go way back to the 70’s. When the bartender brought his mug of ginger ale, he went back to setting up his stuff with his usual laid-back demeanor.

Once the music began, I was spellbound. Watson’s wonderfully inventive lines, flurried chords and chugging shuffle rhythms were the perfect complement to Harman’s whooping harp, answering each others calls and pushing each other, riding on the wave of an excellent rhythm section. The dance floor filled up and people were boogie-ing down, yelling out their approval whenever. Dancing ranged from simple shakedowns to fancy footwork, and everyone was just intent on having a ball. There was a fantastic vibe all round, the way a real happening party should be. Man, this is THE original dance music. Bear that in mind when you get tired of incessant chest-pounding beats and electronically-generated noises. There’s real music to be had if you look hard enough.

They did 2 smokin’ sets, and would have brought the roof down if they played anymore. As I left, I caught Watson hanging out with Bob, puffing on what was left of a little stump of a cigar. Watson’s a real nice fellow, and doesn’t really talk much about what he’s achieved or who he’s played with. Instead, we ended up talking about cigars (not that I know much of), music, Singapore, guitars and stuff. Here’s a guy whose stuff I’ve been listening to for a long time on the recommendation of Steven from Roomful of Blues, who I read about in blues magazines and websites, whose name is among one of those always mentioned when it comes to West Coast blues guitarists, and yet he just comes across as an average Joe who loves what he does and does what he loves. It’s good to know that the blues musicians I admire also happen to be great guys. That’s what blues is about I guess, keeping the music and the people real.

And so it was, one of the most fantastic gigs I’ve ever seen. 2 of the biggest names in modern blues on the same stage, getting to talk to them and seeing them rip it up real good on stage. Ten bucks has never brought me so far before.







Latest fortune cookie caper: "Many people will be drawn to you for your wisdom and insights".

I wish those people the best of luck.

 

Blow wind blow

Following the enthralling gig at Doheny Stage Beach, I went to catch James Harman at the Café Boogaloo on Saturday. It’s located just before Hermosa Beach, along a small stretch of watering holes and surf-clothing shops. I had a few hours to kill before the set began, so I went to check out the beach.

It was simply breathtaking, and it had to be the most beautiful beach I’d ever seen to date. The fine sand was smooth and pleasing to the touch like talcum powder, not like the coarse grains of Sentosa which leave your feet feeling raw. The sea wasn’t exactly cyan blue, but it was beautiful nonetheless. The beach went on as far as the eyes could see on either side, and just behind there were shops, cafes and houses all along the coastline. Skateboarders, roller-bladers, cyclists and pedestrians walking dogs or pushing prams all co-existed peacefully on the sidewalk, while the beach-goers indulged in beach volleyball, dipping in the ocean, or just plain lazing in the sun. The strong breeze blowing by carried the subtle scent of the sea, accompanied by the sounds of spring-time merriment.

Along the street just behind the beach, pubs were overflowing with people and music pumped out through their PA systems. In between the pubs were clothing shops selling surfer stuff. Rows of white tents lined the pavement, selling all manner of oddities and curiosities alongside the usual T-shirts and trinkets. Unfortunately, most of the activity had already died down and they were just packing up, but judging from the number of stalls I can just imagine the bustling festivities that took place earlier. Besides, another form of bustling activity was just starting to liven up in the watering holes.

I got myself a cup of coffee and walked up the pier as the sun went down. Casual fishers were all along the sides of the pier, some in intense concentration while others chilled out in lawn chairs. Seagulls glided overhead, occasionally perching on the railing. I walked all the way to the end and sat down on an extremely worn but still serviceable wooden bench, sipping my coffee. Beside me, a boisterous group of friends were busy posing and taking pictures, while a tourist couple leaned on the railing on the other side.

Gradually, the amber sky grew dark and the lights from the street and houses dotted the coastline. By now, the casual sea breeze had become a biting chill, and there were a lot less people on the pier compared to earlier on. I sipped my coffee and held it in both hands to keep them warm as the wind whistled in my ears, competing against the sound of the waves crashing onto the shore.

**Warning : Mushy content ahead!**

As I admired the transformation of the coastline and the vast expanse of the beach and ocean, it occurred to me that it would have been great to have someone special to share it with. Awe-inspiring moments like these sometimes make me imagine what it would be like to have a like-minded individual to enjoy it with. The setting would have been perfect for a romantic endeavour, not to mention that it would be nice to hold something warm other than a cup of coffee.

Then the realization set in that if I did have that special someone, I wouldn’t have gotten to see this in the first place. I wouldn’t have had the peace of mind to go away for the entire 3-month holiday. I wouldn’t have had the freedom to simply drive down the highway on a whim to go to a pub at a beach town. I wouldn’t have been able to explore some of the rougher areas that I’ve been to. I wouldn’t even have been here to think about it.

A mouthful of warm coffee resolved the lingering doubts I had, keeping me warm amidst the cold chill of the night sea. With a renewed resolve to enjoy my life without complications for now, I walked back down the pier to head on to the Café Boogaloo.

Monday, May 23, 2005

 

Seasons in the sun

My second weekend here was spent at Doheny State Beach, where the Doheny Blues Festival was held. I’d always wanted to go to one of these, but somehow it just didn’t happen. Now that I’m here and master of my own time, I’m taking the chance to go to as many as possible. I’ve been to the UBlues Fest in Singapore, and I had to check out what it was like overseas. This one started off my blues festival frenzy on a high note, which hopefully will go even higher in time to come.

The weather was great. The sky was clear with nary a cloud in sight and the sunshine was relentless, yet the sea breeze blowing by was cool, almost chilly. This gave the effect of feeling the sun on your face without sweating, a wonderful sensation to have. Of course, rain was never a question. It felt good to finally get to wear singlet, berms and slippers without freezing to the bone.

The music was, without question, fantastic. Here’s a breakdown of the memorable ones:

David Lindley:

Great lap style slide player, used a whole lot of instruments like conventional acoustic guitars, Weissenborn guitars, the oud and a lute-like instrument. His melodies and rhythms are contemplative and enchanting, yet he approaches his music in a refreshingly light-hearted matter. With song titles like “Catfood Sandwiches” and “When a Guy Gets Boobs”, not much explanation is necessary. He had the crowd (and myself) in stitches, rolling on the lawn in laughter.

Eddy “The Chief” Clearwater and Los Straightjackets:

4 guys wearing masks worthy of WWE and playing shiny, colour-coordinated retro guitars don’t really look like they belong in a blues festival, but they did a great job of backing up their frontman. Raucous rock and roll was their specialty, with a good deal of surf thrown in. Eddy Clearwater is one of the old-timers who has recently gotten his overdue share of the limelight, and deservedly so. Being a left hander, he played his guitar strung normally turned the other way, ala Albert King. His tasteful chorded solos went down well with the happy crowd, ever eager for more rock and roll. His connection with the audience was palpable, and the energy level was upped another notch by his set.

Alvin “Youngblood” Hart:

One of the current generation of younger blues players, Alvin Hart brings it way back to the Mississippi Delta. His thumb plucked out hypnotic bass while he played lines on the upper strings to accompany his powerfully raw vocals. Not exactly easily listening for those not fond of old-school blues, but for junkies like me it was right up my alley. His set ranged from Skip James to Howling Wolf, all done in his own way.

Norwegian Guitarmageddon:

An orgy of 4 great guitar players, each bringing something different to the mix. Though the volume was a little overwhelming at times, they were as tight as a G-string and coordinated all their guitar work very well to prevent it from descending into chaos. Towards the end, they dove into a medley of surf instrumentals mixed with an unlikely partner of classical. Think Pulp Fiction theme mixed with “Mountain King”. The energetic, beer-laden crowd lapped up all the guitar heroics and cheered every solo.

James Harmon:

This guy has been a long-time inspiration for my songwriting. He writes with a mix of ironic humour, sardonic wit and downright slapstick, touching on topics ranging from serious to ridiculous. In his music, you will find incisive insights and silly anecdotes, sometimes in the same song. Within the context of traditional blues, he still manages to inject a fresh sound that is distinctly his. He shared the stage with Nathan James and Ben Hernandez, both of whom I caught on earlier trip to US. They did their thing, keeping the old country blues like Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee going strong. Later, the rhythm section came on and with James Harmon on harp (blues slang for harmonica), they had the crowd on their feet, even though this was held at the smallest stage. An assortment of instruments like congas, African drums and many weird percussion thingies added even more flavours to an already savoury stew. Harman injected plenty of humour into his live set, interspersed with friendly banter. This was perfect for the intimate nature of the venue, and this is the way it should be.

This was the highlight of the festival for me, finally getting to see an inspiration live upclose. Regrettably, I had to choose between Harmon and The Blind Boys of Alabama, which I would have loved to see as well, but they were playing on different stages at the same time. I did see them at Womad once, but never fully appreciated the gospel they sang at that time. Perhaps another time.

On a general note, the atmosphere was carnival-like. People spread out blankets and sat in lawn chairs, well-prepared with shades and hats. Kids played on the grass while the rest lazed around in the sun. The crowd was predominantly middle-aged white, presumably one of the demographic groups with bigger spending power. The venue was right next to the beach and even though it was fenced off, the view of the ocean was a perfect setting for a music festival. White tents around the grounds sold all sorts of things like African craft, reggae paraphernalia, hippie clothes, festival merchandise, cigars, and hats. The food and beer was exorbitantly (though not unexpectedly) overpriced, but they had people at the gates enforcing the “no food or coolers” policy, so no choice there.

Babes were not abundantly present, but were there nonetheless. Unfortunately, the skimpiest outfits were worn by the least-qualified people. Sure, I’m there for the music, but while the ears get to feast, surely the eyes need to have something to look at right?

Now, time to search for my next blues festival.


Current beer in my fridge : Sierra Nevada Pale Ale

Wednesday, May 18, 2005

 

Cause it's in him, and it gotta come out...

The blues that is. I was itching for some live blues and a good jam, so I made my way down to Babe's and Ricky’s Inn, as recommended by the fellow blues lovers in America on The Big Road Blues Forum.

The drive was pretty ok. In fact, I’ve pretty much gotten the hang of getting around this place. The streets run mostly perpendicular to each other within each city, and the freeways are like veins connecting them up. As long as you know which freeway goes where, you won’t get too terribly lost. In any case, Google maps has been invaluable in planning my journeys. Never leave home without checking it up.

As I turned into the neighbourhood, the dullness of the place struck me as a marked difference from Anaheim. The buildings were slightly more run down and there were none of those garish advertisements or signs, leaving grey and dirty brown as the predominant colours. Weeds grew out of the pavement and rusty fences lined the roads. A policeman stood outside an empty fast food restaurant with 2 police cars outside, the blinkers on to proclaim their presence. One can only guess what they were doing there, but it probably doesn’t need too much imagination.

I reached the place earlier than I’d expected, so I decided to walk around to get a feel of the neighbourhood. The streets were mostly deserted, with only the sound of traffic and occasional shouts. A cold chill blew across the traffic intersections, sweeping up the litter as it flitted along the pavement. One homeless man slept on a bench, wrapped up in several ragged blankets. A shopping cart beside him held all his worldly possessions. 2 others smoked on another bench, holding a can of beer each in open defiance of the “No Alcoholic Beverages” sign.

A distant high-pitched voice distracted me from my quiet observation routine. Walking towards me from the opposite direction was lady dragging a suitcase, clattering on the pavement as the plastic wheels bounced on concrete. I saw her mouth moving and she was looking straight at me but I couldn’t hear what she was saying. As she drew nearer, I caught the gist of what she was saying, something about filing a sexual harassment suit and having everything that your ancestors gave you taken away.

I shrugged my shoulders at her and she walked on, ranting all the way.

One round around the block was quite enough, so I stepped into the pub. I was the first customer for the night, and was warmly greeted by Laura, the genial matriarch and owner of the club. She presided over the proceedings from her executive chair, collecting the cover and shouting out instructions from her place beside the entrance. Her 2 daughters, Belinda and Glenda, kept the beer and food flowing. The place itself was large enough to hold a good crowd, yet maintained a cosy atmosphere. The Christmas lights that lined the corners of the ceiling gave it an oddly quaint but comfortable ambience. The walls were plastered with pictures, posters and other memorabilia, and cushioned booth seats lined the far wall. I took my seat at the bar counter nearer the entrance and got myself a beer. Everything was worn-in and bore the marks of age, but held up well. An apt reflection of how the blues has survived over the generations.

Laura instructed Belinda to punch in some music on the jukebox, reciting the numbers from memory. She duly obliged and the place filled up with the sounds of blues, jazz and soul, ranging from Elmore James to Jimmy Smith and Little Milton, as I sipped my beer. Now that’s what I’m talking about.

The crowd filtered in slowly but surely. A mixed crowd, which roughly reflected the national racial demographic, filled up the place as the band started to set up. Beer bottles were opened, wine was poured and the crowd din rose above the jukebox. The night was shaping up.

The band started off nice and easy, keeping the volume manageable. They did a couple of songs before calling up the first round of jammers. More about that later.

After that, the headliner Ms Mickey Champion opened up the 2nd set, singing among the patrons and working the crowd for tips. She was a small, elderly lady but her booming voice filled the whole room, sometimes forgoing the microphone. When she did use it, she pushed the PA to its limits and had it begging for mercy. Her powerful renditions drew loud applause and hoots of approval, her connection with the audience growing ever stronger.

She ended rather abruptly after about 4 songs or so, and the 2nd round of jammers went up, myself included. The whole jam was distinctly underwhelming, though not totally unexpected. Jams are generally a mixed bag, especially on a crowded night.

Laura was not too impressed either. As the set wrapped up and people started leaving, she was candid about her opinion of the jam that night. Ah well, there are good nights and there are bad nights.

As I left, however, she made me promise to come back, throwing in an offer I couldn’t resist.

“I’ll bring down my old guitar and you can use that, since you don’t have yours.”







“It’s a Gibson.”

Ka-ching.

Monday, May 16, 2005

 

Riding around in my automobile

My first weekend in California went by pretty smoothly. I had a bit of navigation issues, but managed to get myself acquainted with the highways and freeways running through Los Angeles and its neighbouring cities. Drove up to downtown LA, down Sunset Boulevard and checked out a couple of guitar shops. Here are some of the more memorable ones:

1) Guitar Center

Probably the biggest guitar store chain in US. When I first stepped in, I was assaulted with a barrage of power chords, followed by a long line of notes going at approx. 10000 notes / sec. The place was filled with lots of guitaristos and their accompanying girlfriends. Quite a few pieces of eye-candy, albeit mostly looking a bit bored. It sure makes a wonderful place even better though.

The shop itself was basically filled wall-to-wall with guitars, 5 high. The whole place could probably fit in all of the guitar shops of Singapore, with space for toilets. Most of the stuff hanging on the walls was fluff and the noise was deafening, so I made a quick detour into the acoustic room. I didn’t waste much time in there either, and went into the vintage room, eager with anticipation.

A mouthwatering selection of old guitars and amps filled the 2 storey room. Alas, all of them were priced way beyond my reach. Most of them were beyond my physical reach too. Don’t laugh.

Anyway, I played a few of them and I had immediate relief for my withdrawal symptoms. After 1 whole week of cold turkey, it felt great to hold a guitar in my hands once again. The sounds of steel resonating on wood were a balm for my guitar-deprived soul, and my fingers danced in joy, celebrating their return to the creation of music, one of their most treasured jobs.

2) Valdez Guitar Shop

Small, homely place. Focuses mainly on flamenco and classical guitars as well as lessons, and is home to Art Valdez. He’s a luthier by trade and has made guitars for a whole list of celebrities. Some of his work hung on the walls and were absolutely breathtaking. I probably wouldn’t have much use for them, since they were exotic-looking double-necked guitars, but they were beautiful and fantastically made. He’s real friendly too, and one of his colleagues Fred happens to have been to Singapore 4 times already. The 2 of them make this place a real friendly one, and I’m sure I’ll be back, even though they don’t really have many guitars that I’d play.

3) Don’t know the name of this shop

Another small one, just opposite Valdez. Apparently there are lots of guitar stores along this stretch of Sunset Boulevard. This one was pretty funky, decorated in 70-80’s kitsch and a whole lot of cool, old guitars that vintage purists would scoff at, but they’re right in my ball park. These guitars tend to be fantastic for blues and hopefully aren’t as expensive as their vintage counterparts. The guy working there today didn’t seem too interested, but that’s not gonna put me off from checking out some other cool old guitars in the near future.

Another place I went to was Amoeba Records, also along Sunset Blvd. Huge record store with a cool blues mural on one of the walls, but a relatively small selection of blues CDs. For the first time ever, I actually saw some hot chicks in the blues section, something I'll never see back home. I picked up a few good ones, and I’ll be back for more.
(CDs I mean).

The tedious drive was made much more enjoyable by KJazz 88.1 FM. They're mostly jazz, but have a few hours dedicated to hardcore blues right up my alley. Amazingly, they manage it without any advertisements. They broadcast online too, so check them out.

It was yet another night of Chinese food, this time tasteless fried rice, and here’s the Fortune Cookie Caper for today:

“You have a deep appreciation of the arts and music.”

Well well.

Sunday, May 15, 2005

 

Sty(le) living

My crib/pad/abode/residence or whatever you want to call it is probably as fancy as it'll ever get. It came totally empty except for a few built in cupboards and kitchen gas stove so I rented some furniture, just the bare necessities:

01 x Bed (w/mattress)
01 x Writing Desk
01 x Fridge
01 x 19" TV

And they were kind enough to throw in a sofa and a lamp.

Minimalist it is, but that's just me. Anything that doesn't need to be there isn't there. Perhaps the only thing that counts as decoration too is a bottle of Ballantine's Finest on my work desk. Well, that works for me.

The neighbourhood seems pretty quiet. It's located in a sub-urban residential area (Anaheim isn't a bustling city to begin with) and this particular block of rented apartments I'm staying in comprises mostly Hispanics. Generally rather peaceful. No encounters of the sweet Latino kind though.

It's my first weekend here and I'm catching up on the Internet stuff I've been missing out on after the cable guy came to install it at about 1100 hrs. Right now the weather's pretty much the same as in Singapore, warm and sunny. It gets cold in the mornings though, which doesn't do much for my early morning moods. It doesn't get dark until about 2030, where the temperature starts to dip a little.

Food is, well....American. I've just had my lunch of one huge slice of pizza which is probably equivalent to 3 Singapore slices. Chinese food is so-so, rather bland and caters more to American tastes. Imagine black-pepper beef that actually tastes sweet. Mexican food adds a bit of spice and zest, but seems to be the same everywhere. There are only so many tacos and enchildas I can eat in a week.

Besides, eating out gets rather expensive. No more SGD$3.00 cai peng. I've bought stuff to cook from the supermarket (ok ok instant noodles and canned stuff...master chef I ain't alright?) but my gas stove isn't working yet, so those will have to wait.

I managed to rent a Chevrolet Cavalier, a decent saloon car that drives quite well. It sure beats the monstrous gas guzzling SUV that I had the last time I was here. The rent is killer due to the underage fee for renters under 25, but it's a necessity to get around here. Driving on the other side of the road isn't new to me, but still takes a bit of getting used to. The roads and lanes are huge though, since everyone seems to love huge cars, SUVs and trucks. The things I like though are free parking and having lots and lots of lots (try saying that fast 20 times).

Alright, so much for my living arrangements. Here's something rather unrelated but it was very striking when I saw old 1930-40's b/w footage of Billie Holiday singing it on some late-night music channel. I know reading the lyrics can never be the same as hearing these verses in a pained and fragile yet bittersweet voice, but just try to imagine.

Strange Fruit by Lewis Allen

Southern trees bear strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.

Pastoral scene of the gallant south,
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,
Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh,
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.

Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,
Here is a strange and bitter crop.


Can't figure out what it's about? Hint: The barbaric acts being portrayed in imagery are still practised, even if it's not in the same place.

Till the next installment of The Great American Odyssey.

 

James Brown - Living in America

So it has begun. Here are some thoughts from the days before I managed to get my Internet access.


Much of the time so far has been spent on getting stuff like the car and apartment settled. Not entirely smooth sailing, with one rather unpleasant surprise regarding my credit cards, but I’ll get by.

While waiting for the apartment I stayed in some quaint little motels, the kind with only 2 storeys where you park your car downstairs, like in those Elvis Presley movies. You’d almost expect to see a bright red Cadillac parked in the front and women with big beehive hairdos. The TV is older than me (Check it out, it’s a Zenith – Solid State Chromacolour II. Probably from the days when vacuum tubes were being phased out and transistors were touted as the next big thing) and the air-conditioner does a good imitation of a B-747. The bedsheets and blankets have holes and all the plastic fixtures and sockets which were once white and clean are now yellowed and faded. Nevertheless, it works for me. Cheap place to sleep.

Best part is, the motels are close to Disneyland and every night they’ve got fireworks. I’d bring a chair outside to watch and lounge with a beer, but it’s way too cold. Actually, it’d be cool to hit Disneyland one more time, but it’s kinda weird to go alone. Maybe I’ll find a hot date to go with me. Then again, I think I’d have a better chance at the jackpot.

* * *

I moved into my apartment but it didn’t have cable/broadband yet, so I spent quite a few nights watching the only channels that were available, which were mostly Hispanic, such as Azteca America. I didn’t understand a single word of what they were saying, but I really enjoyed watching them nonetheless, because Latino women are simply hot. Well, at least the ones on TV. Those living around my area aren’t that great, but the ones I see on the screen are absolutely stunning. I won’t go into details (you'll have more fun checking them out for yourselves), but perhaps, the grass is always greener on the other side. And the hills are more round.

The rolling r’s and enunciation of Espanol are the perfect complement to their jaw-dropping good looks. Add to that a culture of passionate music (think flamenco and mariachis), sensual dance moves, and it’s a helluva combination. I don’t quite understand the food yet though, but there’s not much to dislike.

I think I need to change channels soon.

* * *

The office is pretty ok, the people are friendly and it’s a rather diversified workforce comprising people from Vietnam, China and India as well as the locals. So far I’ve been reading up on AutoCAD, which I’ll probably be using together with my usual Solidworks and some other specialized software. The first week was mainly getting used to the place and people, and I’ll be getting into some real work come next week.

For now, I’m seriously suffering from guitar withdrawal symptoms.

1) Twitching fingers
2) Hearing songs in my head
3) Daydreaming and fantasizing about running my fingers up and down the neck
4) Abnormal fascination with all images of guitars in the media

As you can tell, there aren’t many music shops anywhere nearby. I’ll have to drive to larger neighbouring cities but I need Google to check up directions. As of now, I’m still waiting for the guy to come set up my cable and broadband.

Shucks, back to Latino channels.

Parting note : I don't know where on earth this idea of fortune cookies for Chinese food came from, just as they sell Singapore noodles which don't taste like anything I've tasted in Singapore.

Anyway, here's one I got :

"You will always possess a charm and sense of humor that attracts others."

Ha.

Current beer in my fridge : Samuel Adams Summer Ale

Sunday, May 08, 2005

 

You gotta bottle up and go...

Here's my last entry before I pack my laptop in.

Stuff's packed, documents are in order, everything else looks fine for now. After a rousing and entertaining (in both good and bad ways) jam last night, I got to talk with an NTU lecturer cum bassist who lived in California. Lots to look forward to, and even more to watch out for. Streetsmarts is the word.

Here's a list of modules I'll be taking:

ME0001 : Introduction to Working Life
ME0002 : Bachelor Pad Ergonomics
ME0003 : American Lifestyle Studies
ME0004 : Long-distance Driving Skills

With some cross-faculty modules:

BL0053 : American Music - Performance and History
GS0001 : Guitar Shop Topology
BO0053 : Brew Appreciation

I don't know how long it'll be before I get on the Internet again, so watch out for my maiden post from California.

Friday, May 06, 2005

 

Run-up to the Odyssey

It's been going smoothly so far. The arrangements are pretty ok, and funnily enough the one thing that's occupying my mind right now is not the prospect of being alone in a foreign land, the challenges of being in a dynamic working environment(I hope) or the anticipation of great freedom and independence. Not even the day-to-day stuff like how I'm gonna do laundry, get food, drive around etc.

It's how on earth I'm going to occupy myself for the straight flight to Los Angeles Airport. 20+ hrs in a chair with no stopover. On previous flights to US, there was at least a transit at Seoul or Tokyo airport. Although I spent most of those transit hours staring at a TV screen without understanding the dialogue, at least I got some blood flowing to my legs. And a chance to check out the local ladies that we in Singapore always rave about.

3 things I'm really hoping for during the flight:

1) Peaceful people sitting beside me. The last time, I had a rowdy pair of young Korean brothers whose legs and arms were all over the place. It was hell.

2) Good in-flight movies.

3) Edible in-flight food.

The flight is on Sunday afternoon. I should stuff myself with more curry and chilli before I spend the next 10 weeks being deprived of those. It's not that American food is bad, in fact some of it is pretty good, just that there are only so many burgers and pizzas I can eat. My primitive cooking skills will only provide the bare minimum for survival, but it'll have to do.

I like my food the way I live my life; with some spice and kick to it.

Thursday, May 05, 2005

 

Days of old

Hanging out with fellow musicians who’ve been around the block longer than myself never fails to yield new insights into music and life in general.

This friend of mine played in one of Singapores’ pioneer blues-rock bands back in the 60’s. Over a few bottles of beer and a bottle of wine, I asked him whether he still kept in touch with the rest of the band.

With a somewhat disappointed look on his usually cheerful face, he replied, “No lah, I don’t like to keep in touch with them anymore.”

After a short silence, he let on about why he felt that way, “Those fellows, they’re all living in the past and resting on their old glories. Everytime we meet, they’ll always be talking about the good old days and how it used to be, how good they were and all that…they never look at what’s happening today, what’s going on in today’s scene…”

Another experienced musician chipped in, “Yeah, as a musician you must always seek to improve your craft and keep learning, otherwise you’ll just stagnate. You know, there’s a Chinese saying ‘Huo dao lao, xue dao lao’ (live to an old age, learn to an old age) ….” *

We clinked our glasses together in a toast to blues and music.




I’ve seen it happen. Some people just can’t seem to let go of the past and can’t see what’s happening today for what it is. They continue to bask in old memories and achievements, always quick to point out how flawed the current systems or practices are, and to extol the virtues of how it was done in the past.

And it’s not old fogeys or grizzled veterans I’m talking about here. Even people in my age group, with whom I’ve been through similar experiences, are just as guilty. These are people whom I would expect to be able to look at the recent past and the present in an objective light without being burdened by excessive sentimentality or nostalgia. It’s not that they’re bad things to begin with, but when they’re shackled to your ankles like ball and chain, something’s just not right.

We’ve all got our own past to deal with, but how we handle that past will determine how we handle our future. I was never much of a history student, but I do believe that it should be our teacher, not our master. Learn from it and live with it, not in it.


* Probably not the exact words, but the gist is there. Remember, booze was involved.

Monday, May 02, 2005

 

Lets talk about us.

A recent look at my Sitemeter report indicates a much higher viewership than I expected. It's not a problem, since this blog isn't meant to be a private emotional outlet or something to be shared only with close friends. In my opinion, there are much better ways to do that than through an online blog.

I don't really know who's reading my blog, apart from those who've left comments or tags or are on my MSN list. We may only be "hi/bye" acquaintances in hall, or you may be a friend of a friend who's linked me up on their own blog, but nevertheless I aim to make each entry a decent read, even for those who may not know me well.

To me, this is probably the online equivalent of sitting at a kopitiam and talking cock over a cup of coffee or a bottle of beer. You're most welcome to pull up a chair and sit in. I'd buy you an online drink if I could, but the technology for that doesn't quite exist.

Still, it would be nice if you could identify yourselves. Especially if you're a young and attractive female.

 

Boogie and Chill

I was jamming at my usual Saturday night haunt along Prinsep Street, a small little pub called Roomful of Blues. It was a much welcome respite from Wala Wala, which I didn’t feel entirely comfortable in, truth be told. Music aside, Wala was jam-packed with dressed-up yuppie types to the point that there’s hardly room to stand without having to tiptoe every once in a while for people to pass through. The cold, dry smokey air stings my eyes like pepper. A subtle poseur aura hangs heavy around the place, reinforced somewhat by the overpriced drinks. There are some nightspots that I warm up to real quick, but this wasn’t one of them. Your mileage may vary.

I’ve been going to Roomful of Blues for almost 5 years now (gee I’m getting old), when I was taking my first few tentative steps out of playing (blues) in my bedroom. It was there that I got my first taste of playing on stage in a pub, where I honed my chops and learnt a few tricks of the trade from fellow jammers. The proprietor of the place, Steven, was an old hand on the blues scene from a long time ago. A killer guitarist then, he can still let it rip, but plays the drums out of necessity to keep the jam going. Never short of advice for a bewildered young wannabe, he was one of the first few people who really taught me stuff. On drums, he ranges from abysmal to brilliant, sometimes consecutively. Never fails to keep me on my toes, in both good and bad ways.

The venue itself is rather curious. Situated in a restored shophouse, it’s narrow but really long. When you first step in, you’ll see a small, wiry Malay fellow grinning at you under his moustache from behind the bar counter. That’s Sunny, the only bartender I’ve ever known to work there. The bar counter takes up half the width, the other half being filled up with high tables and chairs. As you walk further down to the end of the bar counter, you’ll reach the bigger tables where the regulars usually are. It used to be a makeshift dance floor, but that was a long time ago. In front of that is the stage, a raised wooden platform jam-packed with amps, drums and possibly the only Hammond B3 organ in Singapore, complete with rotating Leslie speakers. It hasn’t been played in a while, and in the meantime it’s my favourite spot for putting my beer while I play.

Behind the stage is the pool table, a must for any self-respecting pub worth it’s salt. Beyond that is the mini-kitchen and toilets. Doesn’t sound all that hygienic, but it works.

The whole place is dimly lit like a B-grade horror movie, while posters of blues greats line the wall. The fake plastic vines hanging from the lights are totally out of place, though after a while it’s not a big deal. The smell of last night’s cigarettes is faint, but is soon replenished. It may be the only pub in Singapore with the word “blues” in its’ name, but it really thrives a lot more on the regular staple of Top 40s from Gilbert, a Filipino guitar guy. Real nice and friendly fellow, and the regulars love him. Does very tasteful renditions of their favourite songs too. The only time you’ll hear live blues is on Saturday night, where Steven hosts a jam with the usual suspects, yours truly included. By eleven, Gilbert takes over and gets the crowd going. It’s usually not very packed, but even when it is, it’s not squeezy and suffocating

The crowd consists of some faces I’ve seen since the first time I went there, and everyone’s friendly with each other. Newcomers wouldn’t really look out of place, but you’ll definitely know who the regulars are from the loud greetings and laughter. They’re there week in, week out, occupying their usual tables and gulping their respective poisons, relaxing in a place that they’ve come to like for what it is; an unpretentious joint where you know they’re gonna play your song. Not all of them are huge blues fans, but they don’t really mind us making a racket.

Once in a while, they’ll take the stage when Gilbert’s playing and give the world a rendition of their favourite song, sometimes less than sober. One of them in particular, Patrick, is a barrel-chested middle-aged guy, ex-oil rigger with a balding top and pony tail, always resplendent in tight polo T, jeans and suspenders. Yeap, suspenders. His rusty baritone has all the subtlety of a freight train, and he has unabashedly made one of Louis Armstrong's songs his own. It’s called “What a Bloody Wonderful World”. Naturally, he’s one of the crowd favourites, and brings on cheers and hoots whenever he hits the stage, having endeared himself to anyone who’s heard him sing before.

Of course, there’s no way to complete a description of any nightspot without any mention of the chicks scene. Well, most of them aren’t too bad looking, but are usually a little out of my demographic age group. Once in a while there’ll be a whole lot of eligible females clustered around one table, but me being the decent guy I am, I concentrate on the music and my beer (Alright you can stop laughing now). I did get lucky once, but you’ll have to pry it out of me. Most probably with a crowbar.

It’s not a place to strike you as being cool, trendy or comfy at first sight (it never did for me), but it grows on you, just as you grow into a part of it. Most people I know probably wouldn’t last two minutes in there, but I’m sure those that can will agree with me that it’s a place where you can chill out without any pretense and not feel like a stranger. It’s as close as it gets to a real juke joint in Singapore.

If you’re game, you know who to call. Oh yes, if you want to jam it can be arranged. Play anything you want, as long as it’s twelve-bar blues. Unless you’d like to adopt one of Louis Armstrong’s songs for you own too.

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