Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Down in the Bayou
Following the explosive Tab Benoit performance that I went to, I decided to go down to the Long Beach Bayou Festival to check out the sounds of Louisiana.
It comprises 3 distinct styles, namely Cajun, Creole and Zydeco, but their history and how they are differentiated is still quite confusing to me. If you are so inclined you can try reading this, which should shed some light on its origins and the people behind it. I am far from being an expert on this culture and music but here’s my personal impression of it so far. It’s probably not the most accurate, and if anyone out there can correct me I’d be keen to hear about it, as well as anything else you can share.
It originated from the black Creole slaves and exiled Canadians of French descent who brought along their native music and folk-songs to New Orleans in Louisiana. Generally speaking, the modern band line-up consists of drums, bass, guitar, accordion and a corrugated sheet metal contraption known as a frottoir. Some variations include fiddle, which would usually be found in the more traditional groups with a folk-sy sound. Today it includes many other musical influences such as blues, RnB, soul, funk and reggae, which might reflect some of its’ African-American and Jamaican origins. It also has a strong association with Mardi Gras and I’m sure it makes a great combination, mind-numbing partying and music.
Come to think of it, Mardi Gras is something else that I should check out sometime in my life too, especially to investigate the effects of throwing plastic beads at attractive women.
The music makes for great dancing. The beats seem simple enough, but when you listen closely to it you'll find lots of embellishments that make it catchy. The bands played hard and kept the momentum and energy way up, though once in a while they threw in a waltz-sounding number to take it slow. Generally, it has a very lively and boisterous feel to it, with the off-beats giving it some bounce. The defining sounds of the accordion and frottoir give it a distinctive sound which I can’t really describe here, and in fact may sound downright weird to those of you musically weaned on a staple of radio hits. If you’d just open up your ears though, I’m sure you’ll agree with me that this stuff really grooves. Among some of the performers there were Dexter Ardoin and T-Broussard, who are the next generation of accordion players keeping the music alive. Here’s where you can hear some of it.
The food is simply fantastic as well. I got to try some Jambalaya (which is also the title of a song. I’m sure you’ve heard it before), kind of like a wetter version of nasi goreng with bits of chicken, beef and sausages thrown in and just as spicy. Crawfish is also another delicacy which would be familiar to crab-lovers. Marinated in some spice and steamed in a large pot, they come out in varying shades of red, all nice and juicy. Though they’re pretty small, like a miniature lobster, they taste great and half the fun is in shelling them. It makes for a big mess though, just like eating crab, but those of you who’ve seen my living quarters would know that it’s nothing new to me.
So there I was, sitting on the grass as the sun went down, enjoying my crawfish and the zydeco being played after a day of taking in a new cultural experience. This was just a small approximation of life in New Orleans, Louisiana, but it planted a seed of desire to go there and experience it for myself. That’s for a future adventure.
In the meantime, listen up now folks. It doesn’t get much better than this. Food and music are the essence of life, so keep on eating and keep on playing.
It comprises 3 distinct styles, namely Cajun, Creole and Zydeco, but their history and how they are differentiated is still quite confusing to me. If you are so inclined you can try reading this, which should shed some light on its origins and the people behind it. I am far from being an expert on this culture and music but here’s my personal impression of it so far. It’s probably not the most accurate, and if anyone out there can correct me I’d be keen to hear about it, as well as anything else you can share.
It originated from the black Creole slaves and exiled Canadians of French descent who brought along their native music and folk-songs to New Orleans in Louisiana. Generally speaking, the modern band line-up consists of drums, bass, guitar, accordion and a corrugated sheet metal contraption known as a frottoir. Some variations include fiddle, which would usually be found in the more traditional groups with a folk-sy sound. Today it includes many other musical influences such as blues, RnB, soul, funk and reggae, which might reflect some of its’ African-American and Jamaican origins. It also has a strong association with Mardi Gras and I’m sure it makes a great combination, mind-numbing partying and music.
Come to think of it, Mardi Gras is something else that I should check out sometime in my life too, especially to investigate the effects of throwing plastic beads at attractive women.
The music makes for great dancing. The beats seem simple enough, but when you listen closely to it you'll find lots of embellishments that make it catchy. The bands played hard and kept the momentum and energy way up, though once in a while they threw in a waltz-sounding number to take it slow. Generally, it has a very lively and boisterous feel to it, with the off-beats giving it some bounce. The defining sounds of the accordion and frottoir give it a distinctive sound which I can’t really describe here, and in fact may sound downright weird to those of you musically weaned on a staple of radio hits. If you’d just open up your ears though, I’m sure you’ll agree with me that this stuff really grooves. Among some of the performers there were Dexter Ardoin and T-Broussard, who are the next generation of accordion players keeping the music alive. Here’s where you can hear some of it.
The food is simply fantastic as well. I got to try some Jambalaya (which is also the title of a song. I’m sure you’ve heard it before), kind of like a wetter version of nasi goreng with bits of chicken, beef and sausages thrown in and just as spicy. Crawfish is also another delicacy which would be familiar to crab-lovers. Marinated in some spice and steamed in a large pot, they come out in varying shades of red, all nice and juicy. Though they’re pretty small, like a miniature lobster, they taste great and half the fun is in shelling them. It makes for a big mess though, just like eating crab, but those of you who’ve seen my living quarters would know that it’s nothing new to me.
So there I was, sitting on the grass as the sun went down, enjoying my crawfish and the zydeco being played after a day of taking in a new cultural experience. This was just a small approximation of life in New Orleans, Louisiana, but it planted a seed of desire to go there and experience it for myself. That’s for a future adventure.
In the meantime, listen up now folks. It doesn’t get much better than this. Food and music are the essence of life, so keep on eating and keep on playing.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Man In The Mirror
I've seen some peopl put this stuff on their blogs, so I thought I'd try them out.
Whether you know me in person or only through my blog, I'll leave it to you to decide if it's an accurate analysis. Just one thing though. I don't quite like being referred to as "handy to have around" in that context.
Again I'll leave that to your interpretation.
| ISTP- The Crafter You scored 36% I to E, 52% N to S, 80% F to T, and 52% J to P! |
| You do not approach strangers readily, but you have no problem leading. You are so sure of yourself, others are hesitant not to listen. Your type is known as the crafter, which belongs to the larger group of experiencers. You are likely a master of tools, including vehicles, musical instruments, and weapons. Most pilots are of this personality type. You are always on the go, you live for the here and now to follow your whims, and you share your type with 10% of the population. You don't feel very parental, but you feel your fraternal bonds very deeply. As a romantic partner, you are calm and handy to have around when something goes wrong. You are very responsive to immediate and obvious needs in your partner, but are less comfortable with emotional ones. You are fun, playful, and adventurous. However, at your heart, you are something of a loner and will resist exposing your private thoughts. You want to be appreciated for your ability to size up a problem and solve it quickly. You feel most appreciated when you are left to do your own thing spontaneously. Your group summary: Experiencers (sp) Your Type Summary: ISTP |
My test tracked 4 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender:
|
| Link: The LONG Scientific Personality Test written by unpretentious2 on Ok Cupid |
Whether you know me in person or only through my blog, I'll leave it to you to decide if it's an accurate analysis. Just one thing though. I don't quite like being referred to as "handy to have around" in that context.
Again I'll leave that to your interpretation.
Basic Instinct
If you know rock and roll, you ought to know the name Bo Diddley. If you don’t know who that is, then it’s time to turn off the teenybopper MTV and get into some of that real stuff.
I got to catch him at House of Blues, a restaurant cum performance establishment that rips off the “blues” moniker in the name of profit. The place itself reeked of pretentious attempts to be bluesy, but came of as being more cheesy than anything else. It didn’t help that the ticket prices were ridiculous, about as much as a whole day of entry to a blues festival. But well, there aren’t many blues and rock and roll greats from the old days left, so I didn't have much choice.
The band that opened for him made matters even worse. They claimed to be a blues band and even had an upright bass, but listening to them for a whole hour was, to put it nicely, very tiring. The 3 of them were technically proficient musicians, but should have been in 3 different bands. Pain-inducing volumes, atrocious sound mixing and over-the-top playing from 3 people who weren’t listening to each other made it totally unbearable for me, but somehow everyone else was enjoying it.
The guitarist cum vocalist played loud and fast, making a great show of himself and forcing his amp to feedback at every opportunity, intent on pummelling listeners into submission. The drummer, lost in his own Dream Theater world (I don't have any bones with them, but this is the wrong place for that kind of stuff), crashed on every cymbal he had as though he were being paid by the crash and double-pedalled the kick drum as though it would have chewed off his legs otherwise. The bassist plodded along with cliched bass lines which didn't do justice to the upright bass, and was just simply out of place. There were moments when they started off some songs promisingly, but eventually spiralled downwards into aural chaos once the first verse was over. They ended every song as though it were the last song of a stadium rock concert, which would have been great if it WERE a stadium rock concert, but doing all that under the guise of a blues band is preposterous. I barely made it through the whole hour, all the while entertaining serious thoughts about throwing down my ticket and walking out in disgust. That would have gone against the flow of the general audience sentiment, but I know what I like and what I hate.
The best bands leave you feeling energized and ready to go, but these guys managed to do the exact opposite. I was only sitting on a stool for one hour, but I felt as though I’d been doing an intensive gym workout (something I haven’t done in a very long time). However, my desire to catch Bo Diddley was stronger than that. Each power chord and boom of the kick drum threatened to drain my energy down to the last drop, but I found it in me to hang on with that glimmer of hope, like hanging off a cliff with my pinky, that somehow, something would redeem that evenings’ suffering.
After a 15-20 minute reprieve, Bo Diddley took to the stage. An elderly gentleman, his broad frame was barely held up by his awkward gait as he lumbered towards his chair in centrestage. He was simply but neatly dressed in a short sleeved shirt, complete with the fedora hat has a popular association with the blues, thanks to the Blues Brothers. A guitar tech handed him his trademark rectangular Gretsch guitar, a sure sign that Bo Diddley was in town and ready for action.
His first few songs went by rather ambivalently, not entirely satisfying but still listenable. His fingers may have become rusty with age, but his voice had a certain gravitas to it. Echoes of Muddy Waters rang out in his gravelly baritone, though it was lost in the passable but lacklustre band arrangements. The grit was missing, like a bowl of tom yam soup short on chilli.
After about 4 songs, Bo Diddley stopped to fiddle with his amp a bit. His unsteady hands strummed a few chords here and there, as though he were trying to start a song but fumbling through it and looking quite confused. He consulted his bassist, conferring about some unknown issues and for a while, he left the audience wondering what was going on, though they remained encouraging. After a brief exchange with the soundman, he started strumming again to check out his sound, and paused briefly.
The chords started flowing again, a slow but constant trickle gathering momentum at dangerous speed. Without warning, like a sudden gush from a broken pipe, those previously unsteady hands started hammering out his trademark beat, an incessant, hypnotic pounding like a shaman administering his cure for the musical ills. The primordial stew of rock and roll came to a boil, bubbling furiously as Bo Diddley kept stirring it up. He shook off the shackles of age and dug deep into the beat that made him famous. Soon, the driving rhythm became an unstoppable freight train chugging away at full speed. This was the moment I had been waiting for.
Everything else just fell into place. The rest of the band picked up on his lead and fell into the groove that he laid down. He may have been all of 76 years old and seated in a chair, but his energy was infectious, and he showed just why he was a Rock and Roll Hall of Fame-er. He may not have been very different from the earlier band to most of those in the audience, but for me it was a different dimension altogether.
After that was done, he started to preach the word of rock and roll, and took his time to remind everyone about where it came from. Hallowed names like Muddy Waters, John Lee Hooker, Chuck Berry and Jimmy Reed were all given due mention. He then went into more personal subject matter, capturing attention with a familiar refrain.
“Listen up now, this is some serious shit here”.
Though he was light-hearted and humourous about it, the message was clear. He detailed his struggle with back problems and losing 2 toes to diabetes, earning himself much applause for his strength and conviction to carry on playing. Though his guitar playing showed signs of age, his voice and spirit were still going very strong, and didn’t look like they were going to quit anytime soon. His songs may have been symbols of teenage rebellion a while back, but now he was living out his own rebellion, defying the onset of age to keep on rocking.
He carried on with a few more numbers, even shuffling over to the drumset at one point and doing a duet on a floor tom with the drummer, playing what I’d describe as a “jungle beat” and raising a helluva racket on the last song. Thunderous applause rang out as he departed the stage, waving his hand as he took his leave, a true member of Rock and Roll Royalty.
Never before in my life did I ever get to experience both extremities of the musical spectrum in one night. It was a classic showdown of over-indulgent extravagance vs deep unadulterated groove.
There was one clear winner in my book.
I got to catch him at House of Blues, a restaurant cum performance establishment that rips off the “blues” moniker in the name of profit. The place itself reeked of pretentious attempts to be bluesy, but came of as being more cheesy than anything else. It didn’t help that the ticket prices were ridiculous, about as much as a whole day of entry to a blues festival. But well, there aren’t many blues and rock and roll greats from the old days left, so I didn't have much choice.
The band that opened for him made matters even worse. They claimed to be a blues band and even had an upright bass, but listening to them for a whole hour was, to put it nicely, very tiring. The 3 of them were technically proficient musicians, but should have been in 3 different bands. Pain-inducing volumes, atrocious sound mixing and over-the-top playing from 3 people who weren’t listening to each other made it totally unbearable for me, but somehow everyone else was enjoying it.
The guitarist cum vocalist played loud and fast, making a great show of himself and forcing his amp to feedback at every opportunity, intent on pummelling listeners into submission. The drummer, lost in his own Dream Theater world (I don't have any bones with them, but this is the wrong place for that kind of stuff), crashed on every cymbal he had as though he were being paid by the crash and double-pedalled the kick drum as though it would have chewed off his legs otherwise. The bassist plodded along with cliched bass lines which didn't do justice to the upright bass, and was just simply out of place. There were moments when they started off some songs promisingly, but eventually spiralled downwards into aural chaos once the first verse was over. They ended every song as though it were the last song of a stadium rock concert, which would have been great if it WERE a stadium rock concert, but doing all that under the guise of a blues band is preposterous. I barely made it through the whole hour, all the while entertaining serious thoughts about throwing down my ticket and walking out in disgust. That would have gone against the flow of the general audience sentiment, but I know what I like and what I hate.
The best bands leave you feeling energized and ready to go, but these guys managed to do the exact opposite. I was only sitting on a stool for one hour, but I felt as though I’d been doing an intensive gym workout (something I haven’t done in a very long time). However, my desire to catch Bo Diddley was stronger than that. Each power chord and boom of the kick drum threatened to drain my energy down to the last drop, but I found it in me to hang on with that glimmer of hope, like hanging off a cliff with my pinky, that somehow, something would redeem that evenings’ suffering.
After a 15-20 minute reprieve, Bo Diddley took to the stage. An elderly gentleman, his broad frame was barely held up by his awkward gait as he lumbered towards his chair in centrestage. He was simply but neatly dressed in a short sleeved shirt, complete with the fedora hat has a popular association with the blues, thanks to the Blues Brothers. A guitar tech handed him his trademark rectangular Gretsch guitar, a sure sign that Bo Diddley was in town and ready for action.
His first few songs went by rather ambivalently, not entirely satisfying but still listenable. His fingers may have become rusty with age, but his voice had a certain gravitas to it. Echoes of Muddy Waters rang out in his gravelly baritone, though it was lost in the passable but lacklustre band arrangements. The grit was missing, like a bowl of tom yam soup short on chilli.
After about 4 songs, Bo Diddley stopped to fiddle with his amp a bit. His unsteady hands strummed a few chords here and there, as though he were trying to start a song but fumbling through it and looking quite confused. He consulted his bassist, conferring about some unknown issues and for a while, he left the audience wondering what was going on, though they remained encouraging. After a brief exchange with the soundman, he started strumming again to check out his sound, and paused briefly.
The chords started flowing again, a slow but constant trickle gathering momentum at dangerous speed. Without warning, like a sudden gush from a broken pipe, those previously unsteady hands started hammering out his trademark beat, an incessant, hypnotic pounding like a shaman administering his cure for the musical ills. The primordial stew of rock and roll came to a boil, bubbling furiously as Bo Diddley kept stirring it up. He shook off the shackles of age and dug deep into the beat that made him famous. Soon, the driving rhythm became an unstoppable freight train chugging away at full speed. This was the moment I had been waiting for.
Everything else just fell into place. The rest of the band picked up on his lead and fell into the groove that he laid down. He may have been all of 76 years old and seated in a chair, but his energy was infectious, and he showed just why he was a Rock and Roll Hall of Fame-er. He may not have been very different from the earlier band to most of those in the audience, but for me it was a different dimension altogether.
After that was done, he started to preach the word of rock and roll, and took his time to remind everyone about where it came from. Hallowed names like Muddy Waters, John Lee Hooker, Chuck Berry and Jimmy Reed were all given due mention. He then went into more personal subject matter, capturing attention with a familiar refrain.
“Listen up now, this is some serious shit here”.
Though he was light-hearted and humourous about it, the message was clear. He detailed his struggle with back problems and losing 2 toes to diabetes, earning himself much applause for his strength and conviction to carry on playing. Though his guitar playing showed signs of age, his voice and spirit were still going very strong, and didn’t look like they were going to quit anytime soon. His songs may have been symbols of teenage rebellion a while back, but now he was living out his own rebellion, defying the onset of age to keep on rocking.
He carried on with a few more numbers, even shuffling over to the drumset at one point and doing a duet on a floor tom with the drummer, playing what I’d describe as a “jungle beat” and raising a helluva racket on the last song. Thunderous applause rang out as he departed the stage, waving his hand as he took his leave, a true member of Rock and Roll Royalty.
Never before in my life did I ever get to experience both extremities of the musical spectrum in one night. It was a classic showdown of over-indulgent extravagance vs deep unadulterated groove.
There was one clear winner in my book.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Bright lights, big city
It was just as I expected. Along Las Vegas Boulevard, swanky hotels and casinos vied for attention, each attempting to outdo the other in grandeur. Some others reveled in the other end of the spectrum, blatantly tawdry and proud of it, but all had a common mission to lure the would-be thrill-seekers to their tables. Most of them combined the whole package, being a hotel / casino / shopping mall under one roof. Some even had roller coasters coursing in and out of their premises, bringing periodic bursts of screaming to the already noisy street.
It was a hot day in a desert city, but still the streets were packed. Along the pedestrian sidewalks, newspaper dispensers were used to sell porn magazines while touts (interestingly, both male and female) wearing T-shirts proclaiming “Strippers To You”, “Girls Direct” or “2-for-1 Girls” handed out cards with suggestive pictures and attention grabbing headlines like “Farmer’s Daughters”, “Asian Princess” or “Fantasies Fulfilled”. Did I just lament the lack of room for imagination these days earlier on?
Amidst the sea of smut, a well-groomed elderly gentleman dressed in a preacher’s collar stood defiantly in the sweltering desert heat, holding a basket and laminated poster in an effort to raise funds for a homeless shelter. Oblivious to the din of touts and traffic, his eyes scanned every face crossing the intersection, searching for compassion in the most unlikely location. The touts around him ignored his presence (they are, afterall, focusing on a different market altogether), thrusting their wares into the paths of oncoming pedestrians while he maintained a stoic silence. His choice of location could have been ironic or entirely appropriate, depending on how you choose to look at it.
Ah well, they don't call it Sin City for nothing.
***
For the benefit of international readers, the Singapore government recently decided to allow the building of an integrated resort with a casino, and attracted bids from many of the big names in the gaming industry. The pros-vs-cons debate has been beaten to death in our newspapers, schools, kopitiams and Parliament, so I will not elaborate on it here. For the record, my stand is more on the utilitarian side. Further discussions will be entertained in private.
My companions and I had one weekend, so we only managed a cursory tour of some casinos. Here are some notes about those where we ventured:
Caesar’s Palace:
If Opulence were a person, this would have been his home. Carved marble statues, elaborately gilded columns, imposing fountains and everything associated with ancient Roman cliché all conspired to project a pseudo-mythical aura. If they were to go a step further they’d require a mandatory togas-only dress code.
The Venetian:
This is for those too lazy to go all the way to Europe. Interior and exterior décor went all out of the way to squeeze the whole European continent into one building. Simulated shopping sidewalk with al-fresco (sort of) dining, internal canal complete with gondola rides ala Venice, ceiling paintings ripping off Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel and even security guards dressed up as Italian policemen. And which Euro-wannabe mall/hotel/casino in the world would be complete without a wax figure of Pavarotti?
On second thought, don’t bother answering that.
MGM Grand:
No cheesy themes here, just modern chic. In line with the MGM concept though, they had an indoor lion habitat, where 2 lionesses spent the whole day sleeping on top of a thick plastic passageway. People squeezed in to take pictures of their underside, for reasons I can only speculate about (how often do you get to see a lions anus up close?), while queuing up to have their picture taken with an irritated lion cub for an exorbitant fee.
In all the casinos, row after row of gaudily-coloured slot machines created a racket of electronic noise. In front of them sat mostly retirees, clutching a bucket of coins and a holding a bottle of beer or cigarette, glued to the screen. Other sections had tables offering blackjack, roulette or craps, from which occasional whoops of joy and applause emanated. Gamblers of all ages and nationalities thronged the tables, demonstrating the universal, timeless human desire to make a quick buck.
The atmosphere was generally one of colourful merriment, and it didn’t help that all the casinos seem to be in conspiracy to cover their floors with carpets that would have constituted an aesthetic disaster if they were anywhere at eye level. Scantily dressed women sauntered around the tables taking orders for drinks and cigarettes. The more upmarket ones had plenty of eye-candy for those not fixated on their cards or screens, while the less flashy ones went for a decidedly more….maternal….feel. Suited casino employees flaunting huge walkie-talkies made their rounds to make their presence felt, reinforcing the air of silent intimidation that came from the array of cameras mounted on the ceiling.
I tried my hand at a slot machine, and it took me a grand total of US$ 1.50 to realize that gambling isn’t for me. The thought of putting money down and leaving it to a game of chance just didn’t work out for the miser in me. Needless to say, I didn’t even bother with the blackjack tables, where the minimum bet ranged from US$5 to US$100. Anyone with a basic grounding in statistics would understand what kind of odds you have at the casino. I have no problems with wagers on the merit of skill, but putting money on a random possibility is beyond me. Your mileage may vary.
I wonder how ours is going to turn out.
Current beer in fridge : Stone Arrogant Bastard Ale, Anchor Liberty Ale, Franziskaner Hefe-Weisse
It was a hot day in a desert city, but still the streets were packed. Along the pedestrian sidewalks, newspaper dispensers were used to sell porn magazines while touts (interestingly, both male and female) wearing T-shirts proclaiming “Strippers To You”, “Girls Direct” or “2-for-1 Girls” handed out cards with suggestive pictures and attention grabbing headlines like “Farmer’s Daughters”, “Asian Princess” or “Fantasies Fulfilled”. Did I just lament the lack of room for imagination these days earlier on?
Amidst the sea of smut, a well-groomed elderly gentleman dressed in a preacher’s collar stood defiantly in the sweltering desert heat, holding a basket and laminated poster in an effort to raise funds for a homeless shelter. Oblivious to the din of touts and traffic, his eyes scanned every face crossing the intersection, searching for compassion in the most unlikely location. The touts around him ignored his presence (they are, afterall, focusing on a different market altogether), thrusting their wares into the paths of oncoming pedestrians while he maintained a stoic silence. His choice of location could have been ironic or entirely appropriate, depending on how you choose to look at it.
Ah well, they don't call it Sin City for nothing.
***
For the benefit of international readers, the Singapore government recently decided to allow the building of an integrated resort with a casino, and attracted bids from many of the big names in the gaming industry. The pros-vs-cons debate has been beaten to death in our newspapers, schools, kopitiams and Parliament, so I will not elaborate on it here. For the record, my stand is more on the utilitarian side. Further discussions will be entertained in private.
My companions and I had one weekend, so we only managed a cursory tour of some casinos. Here are some notes about those where we ventured:
Caesar’s Palace:
If Opulence were a person, this would have been his home. Carved marble statues, elaborately gilded columns, imposing fountains and everything associated with ancient Roman cliché all conspired to project a pseudo-mythical aura. If they were to go a step further they’d require a mandatory togas-only dress code.
The Venetian:
This is for those too lazy to go all the way to Europe. Interior and exterior décor went all out of the way to squeeze the whole European continent into one building. Simulated shopping sidewalk with al-fresco (sort of) dining, internal canal complete with gondola rides ala Venice, ceiling paintings ripping off Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel and even security guards dressed up as Italian policemen. And which Euro-wannabe mall/hotel/casino in the world would be complete without a wax figure of Pavarotti?
On second thought, don’t bother answering that.
MGM Grand:
No cheesy themes here, just modern chic. In line with the MGM concept though, they had an indoor lion habitat, where 2 lionesses spent the whole day sleeping on top of a thick plastic passageway. People squeezed in to take pictures of their underside, for reasons I can only speculate about (how often do you get to see a lions anus up close?), while queuing up to have their picture taken with an irritated lion cub for an exorbitant fee.
In all the casinos, row after row of gaudily-coloured slot machines created a racket of electronic noise. In front of them sat mostly retirees, clutching a bucket of coins and a holding a bottle of beer or cigarette, glued to the screen. Other sections had tables offering blackjack, roulette or craps, from which occasional whoops of joy and applause emanated. Gamblers of all ages and nationalities thronged the tables, demonstrating the universal, timeless human desire to make a quick buck.
The atmosphere was generally one of colourful merriment, and it didn’t help that all the casinos seem to be in conspiracy to cover their floors with carpets that would have constituted an aesthetic disaster if they were anywhere at eye level. Scantily dressed women sauntered around the tables taking orders for drinks and cigarettes. The more upmarket ones had plenty of eye-candy for those not fixated on their cards or screens, while the less flashy ones went for a decidedly more….maternal….feel. Suited casino employees flaunting huge walkie-talkies made their rounds to make their presence felt, reinforcing the air of silent intimidation that came from the array of cameras mounted on the ceiling.
I tried my hand at a slot machine, and it took me a grand total of US$ 1.50 to realize that gambling isn’t for me. The thought of putting money down and leaving it to a game of chance just didn’t work out for the miser in me. Needless to say, I didn’t even bother with the blackjack tables, where the minimum bet ranged from US$5 to US$100. Anyone with a basic grounding in statistics would understand what kind of odds you have at the casino. I have no problems with wagers on the merit of skill, but putting money on a random possibility is beyond me. Your mileage may vary.
I wonder how ours is going to turn out.
Current beer in fridge : Stone Arrogant Bastard Ale, Anchor Liberty Ale, Franziskaner Hefe-Weisse
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Keep your eyes on the road, your hands upon the wheel...
We see it all the time in travel brochures, movies and magazines, the city that represents the peak of entertainment and debauchery, where you can satisfy all the seven deadly sins in a day and still have time left for a martini. That’s Las Vegas, aka Sin City, and I went up there with the same group of companions.
For the record, they were generally more into the tourist side of things and we had only one car, so I didn’t really get to check out whatever I wanted to check out (I'll leave you to guess what those are). It was still an enjoyable trip though, and for a start I'll talk about the drive:
It was a 240 mile, 3-4 hour drive through the Mojave desert, spread between 3 drivers. For someone who lives on a small tropical island, the big open stretches of interstate freeways were immensely liberating. The sight of concrete and tar snaking across the terrain into the mountainous horizon would have probably been a grumpy indication of how long the trip would take for most, but to me it was a joy to behold.
If I were to close my eyes and imagine, I’d be driving a convertible and playing ACDC, Rolling Stones or even country (hey, it IS the desert) on the stereo, but for now I had to make do with a 4 door saloon car with the windows up, air-conditioner blasting and the sappy love songs on the radio station that my companions chose. Ah well, rock and roll isn't for everyone.
This drive was very scenic as well. The earlier part was a winding path through a mountain, affording a panoramic view of the valley on one side which was even more glorious in the sunset on the way back. Later on it went into flatter terrain which became progressively drier, with the occasional rocky outcrops and hills breaking up the monotony. A few of them had their darker coloured stratified layers lined up nicely to resemble a random stroke of a paintbrush across the canvas, against the varying hues of brown. The constant theme throughout was the backdrop formed by the distant mountains together with the clear azure sky.
The terrain transitioned from green to brown as we cruised through the desert. One of my companions bemoaned the lack of trees (understandably, since he used to study in Canada), but it didn’t matter to me. I get enough of those back home and it was refreshing to see so much empty space for a change. The dulating nature of the terrain was mighty tempting too. If I were driving a real off-road vehicle (not the plush, oversized, gas-gulping monsters called SUVs that inhabit the urban streets) and traveling alone, I would have loved to take her for a spin off the highway, give her a good rough time and get some real earth dirt on her face. Not necessarily legal, but surely a lot of fun. I’ve always been one for the road less traveled, if there is a road to begin with.
We passed by a region totally devoid of vegetation, a huge brown expanse of sand surrounding a family of mountains. The bare sand shimmered in the relentless sunshine like a lake in the middle of the desert brush, and it’s not hard to imagine how mirages could have hoodwinked past desert wanderers. That’s the allure of the desert for me; beautiful from a distance, fascinating yet mysterious and dangerous if you’re not prepared.
It then occurred to me that though they may be total opposites, the ocean and the desert are rather similar. They both visualise the prospect of freedom (especially if you’re in Alcatraz or Abu Ghraib) and represent the borders of civilisation. Their beauty lies in their vastness and just looking at them frees up the mind to wander. The apparent simplicity of the landscape belies the inner complexities that run deep, a trait which I value in many aspects of life, be it music, aesthetics, engineering design or people.
In a past life, I must have been a claustrophobic.
Vegas Road Trip Pt II coming up next, stay tuned folks.
For the record, they were generally more into the tourist side of things and we had only one car, so I didn’t really get to check out whatever I wanted to check out (I'll leave you to guess what those are). It was still an enjoyable trip though, and for a start I'll talk about the drive:
It was a 240 mile, 3-4 hour drive through the Mojave desert, spread between 3 drivers. For someone who lives on a small tropical island, the big open stretches of interstate freeways were immensely liberating. The sight of concrete and tar snaking across the terrain into the mountainous horizon would have probably been a grumpy indication of how long the trip would take for most, but to me it was a joy to behold.
If I were to close my eyes and imagine, I’d be driving a convertible and playing ACDC, Rolling Stones or even country (hey, it IS the desert) on the stereo, but for now I had to make do with a 4 door saloon car with the windows up, air-conditioner blasting and the sappy love songs on the radio station that my companions chose. Ah well, rock and roll isn't for everyone.
This drive was very scenic as well. The earlier part was a winding path through a mountain, affording a panoramic view of the valley on one side which was even more glorious in the sunset on the way back. Later on it went into flatter terrain which became progressively drier, with the occasional rocky outcrops and hills breaking up the monotony. A few of them had their darker coloured stratified layers lined up nicely to resemble a random stroke of a paintbrush across the canvas, against the varying hues of brown. The constant theme throughout was the backdrop formed by the distant mountains together with the clear azure sky.
The terrain transitioned from green to brown as we cruised through the desert. One of my companions bemoaned the lack of trees (understandably, since he used to study in Canada), but it didn’t matter to me. I get enough of those back home and it was refreshing to see so much empty space for a change. The dulating nature of the terrain was mighty tempting too. If I were driving a real off-road vehicle (not the plush, oversized, gas-gulping monsters called SUVs that inhabit the urban streets) and traveling alone, I would have loved to take her for a spin off the highway, give her a good rough time and get some real earth dirt on her face. Not necessarily legal, but surely a lot of fun. I’ve always been one for the road less traveled, if there is a road to begin with.
We passed by a region totally devoid of vegetation, a huge brown expanse of sand surrounding a family of mountains. The bare sand shimmered in the relentless sunshine like a lake in the middle of the desert brush, and it’s not hard to imagine how mirages could have hoodwinked past desert wanderers. That’s the allure of the desert for me; beautiful from a distance, fascinating yet mysterious and dangerous if you’re not prepared.
It then occurred to me that though they may be total opposites, the ocean and the desert are rather similar. They both visualise the prospect of freedom (especially if you’re in Alcatraz or Abu Ghraib) and represent the borders of civilisation. Their beauty lies in their vastness and just looking at them frees up the mind to wander. The apparent simplicity of the landscape belies the inner complexities that run deep, a trait which I value in many aspects of life, be it music, aesthetics, engineering design or people.
In a past life, I must have been a claustrophobic.
Vegas Road Trip Pt II coming up next, stay tuned folks.
Saturday, June 18, 2005
If a picture paints a thousand words...
It occurred to me that I’ve been writing a lot of narrative blog entries lately. A little rotation helps to keep things fresh (no, I’m not talking about relationships) so this entry will be more opinion-based, editorial if you like. If this blog entry offends you, you are welcome to register your complaint for a nominal fee of SGD$10.
You will notice that this blog has very little in the way of pictures, and when there are pictures they are usually of the items being described. This runs contrary to the trend of many blogs I’ve seen. Not that there’s anything wrong with plastering blogs with pictures, but I don’t do it and here’s why.
I’ve never been much of a picture person. Standing there and posing for photos has never been my forte. I remember early vacations with my family when my mother, a die-hard trigger-happy camera addict, had to cajole, convince and coerce me into standing next to something that I hardly cared about and smile for the camera. Usually the smile didn’t come out that convincing in the pictures, and not many of them made the final cut for the album. You know, back in the days when we actually waited for the film to get developed before seeing the picture?
It’s inexplicable, but somehow I just get a feeling of awkwardness standing in front of a camera and trying to pose just like that. Group photos are usually alright with me, sometimes enjoyable with the right crowd, but trying to stand alone in front of a camera and not look silly simply feels weird. It’s almost like those times when some people thought that cameras would steal a person’s soul when he was photographed. I know better than that of course, but still it doesn't work out for me.
As you can probably guess, I’m not cut out to be a model. Most of you would probably think so even without knowing my aversion for cameras.
Don’t get me wrong though, I do appreciate fine photography. I love looking at National Geographic, photography books and anywhere else where I can find beautiful photos. Many times, I've come across photos that simply took my breath away through the vivid or simple images and colours (or lack thereof). In fact, that could be the very reason behind my aversion to being photographed. When I think of all those vacation photos I’ve seen, they don’t do much justice to the monuments or scenery depicted. In fact, it’s almost narcissistic the way some people just fill up album after album with pictures of themselves posing with whatever it was. To me, a photograph serves as a way to portray either a person or scene in a manner that inspires awe or wonder, but vacation photos usually fail miserably in both aspects.
Another school of thought is that those photos help preserve the memories of the place or event. To each his own, but to me, if something is worth remembering, I won’t need photos to remember them by. I also prefer to use a vivid sense of imagination to recreate something that a 2-dimensional picture can’t. A lot of things in daily life these days leave little to the imagination, and it's a brain muscle that could become flab if not exercised.
Losing control of your imagination can be a source of trouble as well, but that’s beyond the scope of this entry.
Besides, the power of the written word is something being increasingly overlooked. This may sound weird coming from someone who studies mechanical engineering, reads mainly newspapers, infrequently reads non-fiction books and thinks that Shakespeare is a great conspiracy by Literature teachers (no hard feelings though, I did learn something from them), but in this day and age of media delivery requiring almost no thought on the part of the receiver, the written language has become antiquated, obselete even. This blog serves as an avenue for me to sustain whatever writing skill I have left before atrophy sets in. Using pictures excessively without making a point would defeat that purpose.
Speaking of blogs, here’s one by a California resident whose entries are incisive and thought-provoking. We happen to have a Leona Valley trip in common, and his account will give you much more fascinating details about the place, facts that I wish I had known before I made the trip. It also offers a vastly different perspective into life for most of us, and I believe everyone can benefit from one of those.
You will notice that this blog has very little in the way of pictures, and when there are pictures they are usually of the items being described. This runs contrary to the trend of many blogs I’ve seen. Not that there’s anything wrong with plastering blogs with pictures, but I don’t do it and here’s why.
I’ve never been much of a picture person. Standing there and posing for photos has never been my forte. I remember early vacations with my family when my mother, a die-hard trigger-happy camera addict, had to cajole, convince and coerce me into standing next to something that I hardly cared about and smile for the camera. Usually the smile didn’t come out that convincing in the pictures, and not many of them made the final cut for the album. You know, back in the days when we actually waited for the film to get developed before seeing the picture?
It’s inexplicable, but somehow I just get a feeling of awkwardness standing in front of a camera and trying to pose just like that. Group photos are usually alright with me, sometimes enjoyable with the right crowd, but trying to stand alone in front of a camera and not look silly simply feels weird. It’s almost like those times when some people thought that cameras would steal a person’s soul when he was photographed. I know better than that of course, but still it doesn't work out for me.
As you can probably guess, I’m not cut out to be a model. Most of you would probably think so even without knowing my aversion for cameras.
Don’t get me wrong though, I do appreciate fine photography. I love looking at National Geographic, photography books and anywhere else where I can find beautiful photos. Many times, I've come across photos that simply took my breath away through the vivid or simple images and colours (or lack thereof). In fact, that could be the very reason behind my aversion to being photographed. When I think of all those vacation photos I’ve seen, they don’t do much justice to the monuments or scenery depicted. In fact, it’s almost narcissistic the way some people just fill up album after album with pictures of themselves posing with whatever it was. To me, a photograph serves as a way to portray either a person or scene in a manner that inspires awe or wonder, but vacation photos usually fail miserably in both aspects.
Another school of thought is that those photos help preserve the memories of the place or event. To each his own, but to me, if something is worth remembering, I won’t need photos to remember them by. I also prefer to use a vivid sense of imagination to recreate something that a 2-dimensional picture can’t. A lot of things in daily life these days leave little to the imagination, and it's a brain muscle that could become flab if not exercised.
Losing control of your imagination can be a source of trouble as well, but that’s beyond the scope of this entry.
Besides, the power of the written word is something being increasingly overlooked. This may sound weird coming from someone who studies mechanical engineering, reads mainly newspapers, infrequently reads non-fiction books and thinks that Shakespeare is a great conspiracy by Literature teachers (no hard feelings though, I did learn something from them), but in this day and age of media delivery requiring almost no thought on the part of the receiver, the written language has become antiquated, obselete even. This blog serves as an avenue for me to sustain whatever writing skill I have left before atrophy sets in. Using pictures excessively without making a point would defeat that purpose.
Speaking of blogs, here’s one by a California resident whose entries are incisive and thought-provoking. We happen to have a Leona Valley trip in common, and his account will give you much more fascinating details about the place, facts that I wish I had known before I made the trip. It also offers a vastly different perspective into life for most of us, and I believe everyone can benefit from one of those.
Friday, June 17, 2005
One bourbon, one scotch, and one beer....
I’m kicking myself for discovering this almost too late, but there’s a grocery store near my place that has a great selection of craft beers. Don’t worry, I’m planning to make up for lost time.
As mentioned in an earlier post, craft beers are brewed by micro-breweries which typically specialize in a few types of beers. For those of you who didn’t know there were different types of beers, here’s something to get you educated.
My first introduction to solid beer (ie not yellow, fizzy lagers) was Kilkenny’s, an Irish ale that is mandatory in any self-respecting Irish pub, alongside Guiness. It was a revelation, a discovery that not all beer had to be gassy and empty-tasting. I was introduced to the world of creamy texture, of malty flavours, of smooth mouthfeel and satisfying bitterness. Beer would never be the same again.
Later on I discovered Brewerkz, a micro-brewery cum restaurant located at Riverside Point along Boat Quay. That really opened up my eyes (or taste buds rather) to the different types of ales. It helped a lot that they had fantastic Happy Hour prices. At $3 a pint from 12-3pm on weekdays, there’s a lot to be happy about. That was my first experience with micro-brew beers.
And California has lots of those. I went to Whole Foods Market, a supermarket chain with a branch about 15 mins drive away. They hid their beer selection right in the corner of the store, and it was just one refrigerated shelf, but that was probably the most appealing shelf of all to me. The feeling was the same as that I get in a great guitar shop, like a kid in a candy store. So many selections to choose from and only one mouth to drink them with. Dang.
My personal preference is for strong malt and hoppy tastes, which is a typical characteristic of most IPAs. Some of them may be a little on the sweet side, while others are unabashedly bitter and proud of it. Not all of you might find it appealing, but that’s the way (uh huh uh huh) I like it. These micro-breweries don’t do much slick advertising, but those who know their beers know who makes the good stuff. I’m still rather new to this, so I stood there perusing the rows of bottles, not knowing where to start since all of them had names I’d never heard of before.
Fortunately, one of the sales guys Tony, whose favourite food is Kung Pao Chicken (It was on his name tag. I almost though that was his name.), came along and offered his assistance. After describing my drinking preferences to him, he gave me a few suggestions, describing each choice in detail and sharing his tasting notes. That helped greatly, and I walked away from the supermarket carrying a 6-pack of Stone India Pale Ale and a bottle each of Anderson Valley Oatmeal Stout and Blanche de Chambly. The check-out cashier must have though I was a really smiley person, and it was the first time I actually felt excited while walking out of a supermarket.
Cheers.
*Disclaimer : The author would like to encourage you to explore the world of beers but also believes in responsible drinking, and so should you.*
As mentioned in an earlier post, craft beers are brewed by micro-breweries which typically specialize in a few types of beers. For those of you who didn’t know there were different types of beers, here’s something to get you educated.
My first introduction to solid beer (ie not yellow, fizzy lagers) was Kilkenny’s, an Irish ale that is mandatory in any self-respecting Irish pub, alongside Guiness. It was a revelation, a discovery that not all beer had to be gassy and empty-tasting. I was introduced to the world of creamy texture, of malty flavours, of smooth mouthfeel and satisfying bitterness. Beer would never be the same again.
Later on I discovered Brewerkz, a micro-brewery cum restaurant located at Riverside Point along Boat Quay. That really opened up my eyes (or taste buds rather) to the different types of ales. It helped a lot that they had fantastic Happy Hour prices. At $3 a pint from 12-3pm on weekdays, there’s a lot to be happy about. That was my first experience with micro-brew beers.
And California has lots of those. I went to Whole Foods Market, a supermarket chain with a branch about 15 mins drive away. They hid their beer selection right in the corner of the store, and it was just one refrigerated shelf, but that was probably the most appealing shelf of all to me. The feeling was the same as that I get in a great guitar shop, like a kid in a candy store. So many selections to choose from and only one mouth to drink them with. Dang.
My personal preference is for strong malt and hoppy tastes, which is a typical characteristic of most IPAs. Some of them may be a little on the sweet side, while others are unabashedly bitter and proud of it. Not all of you might find it appealing, but that’s the way (uh huh uh huh) I like it. These micro-breweries don’t do much slick advertising, but those who know their beers know who makes the good stuff. I’m still rather new to this, so I stood there perusing the rows of bottles, not knowing where to start since all of them had names I’d never heard of before.
Fortunately, one of the sales guys Tony, whose favourite food is Kung Pao Chicken (It was on his name tag. I almost though that was his name.), came along and offered his assistance. After describing my drinking preferences to him, he gave me a few suggestions, describing each choice in detail and sharing his tasting notes. That helped greatly, and I walked away from the supermarket carrying a 6-pack of Stone India Pale Ale and a bottle each of Anderson Valley Oatmeal Stout and Blanche de Chambly. The check-out cashier must have though I was a really smiley person, and it was the first time I actually felt excited while walking out of a supermarket.
Cheers.
*Disclaimer : The author would like to encourage you to explore the world of beers but also believes in responsible drinking, and so should you.*
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Fields of gold
A long drive through the countryside is something that we on that little tropical island don’t get to do much. On Saturday, I went with a colleague and his friend on a daytrip to Leona Valley, where cherry picking season was going to begin. The usual custom is to open the season with a little parade, so we set off in the morning to catch that.
Many miles through a highway surrounded by mountains and valley brought us to a long stretch of small, winding road circling the orchards and horse-riding ranches. In between those, vast fields on both sides of the road stretched to the hills in the distance, covered in sparse brush vegetation with occasional odd looking cactus-like plants. I was in the back seat, a rather unfamiliar feeling though it was great for taking in the sights. This would have been the perfect occasion for a convertible car, but I digress.
As we neared the intersection where it was to be held, traffic slowed to a crawl as people carrying lawn chairs, umbrellas and coolers lined the road. Families strolled casually in the sun, some pushing prams or holding dogs on leash, all preparing for a relaxing start to the weekend.
After getting a parking lot, we walked a while to get a shady spot along the street, alongside a small horde of tourists (from which country exactly I won’t say, such is the nature of blogs). I wasn’t quite expecting that, since this isn’t exactly a touristy place way out in the countryside. Nevertheless, we waited patiently for the parade to start.
The event itself wasn’t much by conventional standards, consisting mostly of SUVs, trucks and tractors with quaint but colourful decoration, each representing an orchard, ranch, school or interest group from the area. There were some really snazzy vintage cars in funky colours with chrome fittings, white wall tires and all. Also in the line-up were some huge horses with riders decked out in resplendent riding gear. The whole thing wasn’t all that elaborate, definitely no Chingay or Mardi Gras, but had a more genuine feel to it, devoid of the usual hype and pomp that usually accompanies the more upmarket parades. It also afforded an insight into the relaxed lifestyle in the countryside. In my mind, I visualized what I would have done if I were living there. Lounging on a chair in the shade with a sandwich in one hand and a cold drink (you know what mine would be) in the other, taking in the proceedings from the side while checking out the chicks in the crowd. That’d be my country lifestyle. Oh, and don't forget the guitar.
However, the event was terribly marred by the behaviour of the tourists. They constantly encroached upon the road, blocking the view of the locals on their chairs in their eagerness to take pictures. Repeated reminders in descending levels of patience did little to help. Neither did shifting their chairs closer to the road. These guys just didn’t stop, and constantly ambushed just about every parade participant to stop for pictures, holding up the parade in the process. They were obliging enough and smiled dutifully for the cameras, but these tourists were simply relentless, not knowing when to stop all the posing nonsense till the driver subtly inched forward.
Needless to say, the locals weren’t too terribly pleased. When the futility of their resistance was evident, they eventually shifted out of their comfortable little spot in the shade to the other side of the road, where it was hotter but less chaotic. I was disgusted by this show of inconsiderate boorishness, but powerless to stop it. There’s a place for tourist behaviour, and this isn’t it. The people living here will welcome you warmly if you give the due respect, but they don't need your tourist dollars and won't look kindly upon such actions.
Putting that aside, after the parade we went to the Windy Ridge orchards to pick cherries. For someone who counts durians as a major food group, I don’t normally care for those, but since I was surrounded by them I went around sampling cherries from every bush.
Gee that didn’t sound polite, but technically it’s correct. Cherries grow on bushes and I was sampling them. There.
But the real pleasure was to be had in enjoying the scenery. The orchard was located on a small mound, which made for a beautiful view of the surrounding fields. I made my way right up to the end of the orchard where the top of the mound was, away from the crowd. It wasn’t exactly the brightly coloured oceans of flowers you’d expect from The Sound Of Music, but it was breathtaking nonetheless. Rolling plains all round like a canvas of sandy brown, dotted by barns and farmhouses and the odd tree. The weather was perfect, not too cloudy but just enough to keep things cool. The wind that blew by sometimes carried the smell of fresh horse manure, but that’s part of the whole package. When it blew, the vegetation on the plains rustled in unison like applause in an auditorium, rising in a crescendo as the wind gathered strength, only to fade away gently as it died down.
Eventually my companions decided that they’d had enough cherries, so we paid up and left. I only carried in my hands a token amount of cherries, slightly over a pound, but the images of the orchard in my memory banks would serve as pleasant recall for as long as they still function.
Current beer in fridge : Lawson Creek Pale Ale
Many miles through a highway surrounded by mountains and valley brought us to a long stretch of small, winding road circling the orchards and horse-riding ranches. In between those, vast fields on both sides of the road stretched to the hills in the distance, covered in sparse brush vegetation with occasional odd looking cactus-like plants. I was in the back seat, a rather unfamiliar feeling though it was great for taking in the sights. This would have been the perfect occasion for a convertible car, but I digress.
As we neared the intersection where it was to be held, traffic slowed to a crawl as people carrying lawn chairs, umbrellas and coolers lined the road. Families strolled casually in the sun, some pushing prams or holding dogs on leash, all preparing for a relaxing start to the weekend.
After getting a parking lot, we walked a while to get a shady spot along the street, alongside a small horde of tourists (from which country exactly I won’t say, such is the nature of blogs). I wasn’t quite expecting that, since this isn’t exactly a touristy place way out in the countryside. Nevertheless, we waited patiently for the parade to start.
The event itself wasn’t much by conventional standards, consisting mostly of SUVs, trucks and tractors with quaint but colourful decoration, each representing an orchard, ranch, school or interest group from the area. There were some really snazzy vintage cars in funky colours with chrome fittings, white wall tires and all. Also in the line-up were some huge horses with riders decked out in resplendent riding gear. The whole thing wasn’t all that elaborate, definitely no Chingay or Mardi Gras, but had a more genuine feel to it, devoid of the usual hype and pomp that usually accompanies the more upmarket parades. It also afforded an insight into the relaxed lifestyle in the countryside. In my mind, I visualized what I would have done if I were living there. Lounging on a chair in the shade with a sandwich in one hand and a cold drink (you know what mine would be) in the other, taking in the proceedings from the side while checking out the chicks in the crowd. That’d be my country lifestyle. Oh, and don't forget the guitar.
However, the event was terribly marred by the behaviour of the tourists. They constantly encroached upon the road, blocking the view of the locals on their chairs in their eagerness to take pictures. Repeated reminders in descending levels of patience did little to help. Neither did shifting their chairs closer to the road. These guys just didn’t stop, and constantly ambushed just about every parade participant to stop for pictures, holding up the parade in the process. They were obliging enough and smiled dutifully for the cameras, but these tourists were simply relentless, not knowing when to stop all the posing nonsense till the driver subtly inched forward.
Needless to say, the locals weren’t too terribly pleased. When the futility of their resistance was evident, they eventually shifted out of their comfortable little spot in the shade to the other side of the road, where it was hotter but less chaotic. I was disgusted by this show of inconsiderate boorishness, but powerless to stop it. There’s a place for tourist behaviour, and this isn’t it. The people living here will welcome you warmly if you give the due respect, but they don't need your tourist dollars and won't look kindly upon such actions.
Putting that aside, after the parade we went to the Windy Ridge orchards to pick cherries. For someone who counts durians as a major food group, I don’t normally care for those, but since I was surrounded by them I went around sampling cherries from every bush.
Gee that didn’t sound polite, but technically it’s correct. Cherries grow on bushes and I was sampling them. There.
But the real pleasure was to be had in enjoying the scenery. The orchard was located on a small mound, which made for a beautiful view of the surrounding fields. I made my way right up to the end of the orchard where the top of the mound was, away from the crowd. It wasn’t exactly the brightly coloured oceans of flowers you’d expect from The Sound Of Music, but it was breathtaking nonetheless. Rolling plains all round like a canvas of sandy brown, dotted by barns and farmhouses and the odd tree. The weather was perfect, not too cloudy but just enough to keep things cool. The wind that blew by sometimes carried the smell of fresh horse manure, but that’s part of the whole package. When it blew, the vegetation on the plains rustled in unison like applause in an auditorium, rising in a crescendo as the wind gathered strength, only to fade away gently as it died down.
Eventually my companions decided that they’d had enough cherries, so we paid up and left. I only carried in my hands a token amount of cherries, slightly over a pound, but the images of the orchard in my memory banks would serve as pleasant recall for as long as they still function.
Current beer in fridge : Lawson Creek Pale Ale
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Good things come to those...
It seems as though the internship work is an excuse to fill up the time in between weekends. I’m past the halfway mark, so it’s time to start jamming more into those days.
On Friday night I went down yet again to Café Boogaloo, where Tab Benoit was playing for a $15 cover. I knew he was quite a big name in the blues scene but I didn’t expect a queue to form outside the pub, much to my dismay, especially since I had already spent 15 minutes circling the place for a parking lot and walking another 5 minutes in the evening chill. Not wanting to grease the bouncer’s palms for an exorbitant fee, I opted instead to freeze my butt off in line while the first few songs were being played. During that period I kept questioning the sense in the long wait, but a tingling feeling (apart from the shivering) deep inside told me that I should stay.
Recalling my early experiences of trying to catch decent live blues several years ago, which were much worse, mitigated my doubts. Those days of cheap, tasteless beer kept in the mug through all 3 sets till it was flat to conserve expenses, of running to catch the last MRT, of volume abuse by blues-bands-in-name, of stale cigarette air...ah well, if you want to be a disciple of the blues, you’ve got to pay the dues.
Finally, Bob the bouncer waved me in after a hearty handshake and collecting the dough. I was pleasantly surprised that he actually remembered me from that night hanging out with Junior Watson. Perhaps it helps that not many short Asian guys hang out here.
It was jam-packed, with hardly enough room to move. Utilising my relative size advantage, I squeezed my way to the bar and got my pint, before maneuvering to a vantage point where I could catch a good glimpse of the action on stage, all the while holding my pint close to prevent the precious fluid from spilling.
The wait was well worth it. Tab played a distinctly different style of blues from the conventional Chicago / West Coast influenced players. He’s from New Orleans, and his music was a potent mixture of blues, zydeco and funk. The distinct Cajun rhythms and swampy grooves from the rhythm section blended to create an infectious groove that had the dance floor packed from beginning to end. I couldn’t sit still either, alternating between swaying ungracefully, vigorous foot-tapping and drumming my hands on the bar. If I were there with any female companion I would have grabbed her (no, not like that) and hit the dance floor, doing my best imitation of Saturday Night Dengue Fever.
2 sets and 2 encores went by too quickly and by then it was already 0130 hrs. I’d tanked up on 3 marvellous pints, namely Red Seal Ale, Anchor Liberty Aleand Hoptown Paint The Town Red. These are micro-brew or craft beers from small, independent breweries, and I will be getting acquainted with more in time to come. They’re definitely in a different class altogether, a much more tasteful and satisfying treat for the thirsty throat than the average lager. There’s so much variety in their tastes to tickle the palate, and a lot more fun than snobbish wines. Besides, a cold pint glass just feels right in my grubby mitts compared to those itsy-bitsy little wine glasses.
Fantastic music, great beer and dancing eye-candy, what's not to like?
The Weekend Chronicles will continue after these messages.
On Friday night I went down yet again to Café Boogaloo, where Tab Benoit was playing for a $15 cover. I knew he was quite a big name in the blues scene but I didn’t expect a queue to form outside the pub, much to my dismay, especially since I had already spent 15 minutes circling the place for a parking lot and walking another 5 minutes in the evening chill. Not wanting to grease the bouncer’s palms for an exorbitant fee, I opted instead to freeze my butt off in line while the first few songs were being played. During that period I kept questioning the sense in the long wait, but a tingling feeling (apart from the shivering) deep inside told me that I should stay.
Recalling my early experiences of trying to catch decent live blues several years ago, which were much worse, mitigated my doubts. Those days of cheap, tasteless beer kept in the mug through all 3 sets till it was flat to conserve expenses, of running to catch the last MRT, of volume abuse by blues-bands-in-name, of stale cigarette air...ah well, if you want to be a disciple of the blues, you’ve got to pay the dues.
Finally, Bob the bouncer waved me in after a hearty handshake and collecting the dough. I was pleasantly surprised that he actually remembered me from that night hanging out with Junior Watson. Perhaps it helps that not many short Asian guys hang out here.
It was jam-packed, with hardly enough room to move. Utilising my relative size advantage, I squeezed my way to the bar and got my pint, before maneuvering to a vantage point where I could catch a good glimpse of the action on stage, all the while holding my pint close to prevent the precious fluid from spilling.
The wait was well worth it. Tab played a distinctly different style of blues from the conventional Chicago / West Coast influenced players. He’s from New Orleans, and his music was a potent mixture of blues, zydeco and funk. The distinct Cajun rhythms and swampy grooves from the rhythm section blended to create an infectious groove that had the dance floor packed from beginning to end. I couldn’t sit still either, alternating between swaying ungracefully, vigorous foot-tapping and drumming my hands on the bar. If I were there with any female companion I would have grabbed her (no, not like that) and hit the dance floor, doing my best imitation of Saturday Night Dengue Fever.
2 sets and 2 encores went by too quickly and by then it was already 0130 hrs. I’d tanked up on 3 marvellous pints, namely Red Seal Ale, Anchor Liberty Aleand Hoptown Paint The Town Red. These are micro-brew or craft beers from small, independent breweries, and I will be getting acquainted with more in time to come. They’re definitely in a different class altogether, a much more tasteful and satisfying treat for the thirsty throat than the average lager. There’s so much variety in their tastes to tickle the palate, and a lot more fun than snobbish wines. Besides, a cold pint glass just feels right in my grubby mitts compared to those itsy-bitsy little wine glasses.
Fantastic music, great beer and dancing eye-candy, what's not to like?
The Weekend Chronicles will continue after these messages.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
I ain't drunk, I'm just drinkin'...
Another weekend at the pubs has been interesting.
Saturday night saw me at The Little Red Rooster (which, incidentally, is a blues euphemism. Not too hard to guess), to catch James Harman again. Another stellar show, but I won’t bore you with a repeat description of something which should really be experienced in person.
Instead, what made the night different from the rest was an inebriated old-timer. He started off hitting some congas at the side of the stage while there was a guy playing acoustic blues. Understandably, the guitar player wasn’t too happy and told him to buzz off. Undeterred, he proceeded to rant loudly to no one in particular, alternating between proudly proclaiming to be a veteran of 2 Vietnam tours and vehemently cursing everyone else for not recognizing a war hero.
For the most part, everyone else ignored him except his pal, who tried to get him to pipe down. Not too much success though, as he then planted himself next to a lady, who was seated at the bar next to her male companion. I was seated at the bar too, and the old-timer stood between myself and the lady.
He carried on his dubious sermon, a haphazard mix of barroom politics, drunken philosophy and misconstrued history. Though I was concentrating on the blues being played, I could see that the lady was slowly becoming visibly pissed. It didn’t help that her male companion was a huge bearded guy who would have looked right at home in the WWE. They weren’t really on the verge of a smackdown, probably in deference to his elderly age and frail frame, but he was making quite a nuisance of himself.
It all culminated in her giving him a piece of her mind, a polite but firmly worded reprimand with choice placements of F-words. Amazingly, his earlier belligerence became suddenly subdued in the face of impending female wrath and he only managed a weak “Ok”. He turned away, staring blankly into his mug of beer. One can only wonder what he saw at the bottom of that mug. With either uncanny coincidence or sarcastic humour, the guy on stage was singing at that moment:
The battle may be over
But the war has just begun
Ordinarily, I don’t care much about drunks but this one brought to mind an issue which we as Singaporeans don’t get to think much about. Don’t get me wrong, I still don’t approve of getting piss drunk in a pub/club to the point of incoherence or even worse, incapacitation. Neither do I believe in blatant self-glorification to the point of disturbing the public peace. It’s just that I’d been watching lots of WWII movies lately and somehow that event served as a catalyst to organize all those thoughts.
In the wake of the Memorial Day weekend and the backdrop of the Iraq war, it’s hard to imagine when peace will prevail. All over the world, tensions seem to pop up like that arcade game where you smack beavers (or whatever they’re supposed to be) poking their heads out of holes with a rubber mallet, but don’t disappear quite as fast. They seem to keep popping up at the same places too. It’s great if you like smacking beavers (stop grinning now) but that’s not quite the point.
Boarding a few different trains of thought brought me to the station of self-reflection. Exactly what went on in that station may not interest most of you, though if you’d like to discuss it constructively I’d most certainly oblige. If you’d like to pop by that station, here are the directions:
“What would I have done?”
Current beer in fridge : Sapporo Premium Beer
Saturday night saw me at The Little Red Rooster (which, incidentally, is a blues euphemism. Not too hard to guess), to catch James Harman again. Another stellar show, but I won’t bore you with a repeat description of something which should really be experienced in person.
Instead, what made the night different from the rest was an inebriated old-timer. He started off hitting some congas at the side of the stage while there was a guy playing acoustic blues. Understandably, the guitar player wasn’t too happy and told him to buzz off. Undeterred, he proceeded to rant loudly to no one in particular, alternating between proudly proclaiming to be a veteran of 2 Vietnam tours and vehemently cursing everyone else for not recognizing a war hero.
For the most part, everyone else ignored him except his pal, who tried to get him to pipe down. Not too much success though, as he then planted himself next to a lady, who was seated at the bar next to her male companion. I was seated at the bar too, and the old-timer stood between myself and the lady.
He carried on his dubious sermon, a haphazard mix of barroom politics, drunken philosophy and misconstrued history. Though I was concentrating on the blues being played, I could see that the lady was slowly becoming visibly pissed. It didn’t help that her male companion was a huge bearded guy who would have looked right at home in the WWE. They weren’t really on the verge of a smackdown, probably in deference to his elderly age and frail frame, but he was making quite a nuisance of himself.
It all culminated in her giving him a piece of her mind, a polite but firmly worded reprimand with choice placements of F-words. Amazingly, his earlier belligerence became suddenly subdued in the face of impending female wrath and he only managed a weak “Ok”. He turned away, staring blankly into his mug of beer. One can only wonder what he saw at the bottom of that mug. With either uncanny coincidence or sarcastic humour, the guy on stage was singing at that moment:
The battle may be over
But the war has just begun
Ordinarily, I don’t care much about drunks but this one brought to mind an issue which we as Singaporeans don’t get to think much about. Don’t get me wrong, I still don’t approve of getting piss drunk in a pub/club to the point of incoherence or even worse, incapacitation. Neither do I believe in blatant self-glorification to the point of disturbing the public peace. It’s just that I’d been watching lots of WWII movies lately and somehow that event served as a catalyst to organize all those thoughts.
In the wake of the Memorial Day weekend and the backdrop of the Iraq war, it’s hard to imagine when peace will prevail. All over the world, tensions seem to pop up like that arcade game where you smack beavers (or whatever they’re supposed to be) poking their heads out of holes with a rubber mallet, but don’t disappear quite as fast. They seem to keep popping up at the same places too. It’s great if you like smacking beavers (stop grinning now) but that’s not quite the point.
Boarding a few different trains of thought brought me to the station of self-reflection. Exactly what went on in that station may not interest most of you, though if you’d like to discuss it constructively I’d most certainly oblige. If you’d like to pop by that station, here are the directions:
“What would I have done?”
Current beer in fridge : Sapporo Premium Beer
