Winter Balkan Night - The Turbans and Kaligola Disco Bazar @ The New Empowering Church

I thought a lot before finally deciding to sit down and write this post. The problem was that I didn't know how to begin. I thought about starting with a funny anecdote of the night, but it didn't work. Maybe with an album that reminded me of the music I listened to? Neither. I even tried with an historic reference... but then I ceased in my enterprise when I imagined you, my dearest reader, maximising the Facebook tab almost instantly after spotting the words ‘nineteenth century’ in the first paragraph. It’s bloody difficult to keep your attention, did you know that?

So in the end I decided I’d start by saying that I don’t know how to start my post about my Balkan gig…  which actually does express in some vague and abstract way the mood of that night. Balkan music has always been something fascinating for me, but quite difficult to explain. I always get these big eyes and funny faces when I try to answer the question: what does it sound like? A bit like Jewish music? Hmmm. A gypsy feel but in an un-cool, non-trendy way? Eventually I give up and I take my wild card out, ‘have you seen any Kusturica films? Do you remember the soundtrack?’ That usually works 3 out of 10 times. The other 7 I just change the subject or improvise a magic trick.

I learnt there was a Balkan Beats party in East London last Saturday, with a couple of live bands. Why not, I thought, and I remembered I’d been craving for a proper Eastern European gig ever since my musically unsuccessful trip to Croatia, where all listened to was soft pop played in an almost (but not quite) Italian way. Later I found out Croatia does not consider itself part of the Balkan region, but I’ll stop that now… and keep your hands off that Facebook tab for Christ sake!

I got into the venue through a little alley on the side of a big warehouse. It was raining, it was dark, the doorman was scary and there weren't too many of us queuing. I briefly remembered the story about the man waking up in a bathtub filled with ice and a note saying 'we've taken one of your kidneys but don’t worry, here’s 20 quid for the cab to the hospital´. But fortunately I was in London where these things don’t happen, so I showed my stupidest smile to the guy at the entrance (you know... the smile you get when you try to act cool but you actually feel a little awkward), paid 10 pounds, and got in.

If there is such thing as a Balkan shock, I got it the minute I walked in. The performing band was called The Turbans, and at the time I was taking my jacket off they were playing something with the most irregular rhythm I had heard in ages. I tried to count along but never got it; it had the most weird meter, 9/8 or 15/16 or similar, something I would be able to reproduce only  if I was the son of a Serbian drummer. The lead singer was a woman with the highest pitch voice, following the tradition of the region’s female folk singers. I remember looking at one of my friends, mouth half open and eyebrows raised, trying to understand what the hell was going on on stage. Fortunately the next tunes were easier to grasp, and actually really good: simple bass lines, drums and percussion (including a darbuka, which added a distinct colour to the groove), a classic guitar doing the base, an electric one rocking it up. But the main ingredient was a violin, played by a classically trained virtuoso that took me on 4 string journey through Eastern European space and time. Amazing.

The second act was a band from Rome called Kaligola Disco Bazar and they were certainly different. To start with, they were all Italian. Or at least they looked all Italian. Loads of moustaches, expressive outfits, expressive gestures, expressive everything: these guys loved to be on stage and that was infectious for us amongst the crowd.  They were basically a full brass band, plus an accordion and a darbuka, and finally a guy with a Mac giving the electronic kick to the act. It was a rich and festive combination of instruments that fitted perfectly to the performers. Their music had a gypsy feel, but was also combined with more traditional folk sounds from Italy and jazzy arrangements, similar to the ones you’d get from classic big brass brands. They had a different attitude as well. When I think about gypsy or klezmer or Balkan music, there is an element of nostalgia and suffering that transforms into something really energetic, but as a discharge, as a way of forgetting sorrows and pain. I couldn't spot much of that in Kaligola: they were all about having fun on stage and transmitting that to the crowd. We got it, and we danced and jumped until our feet hurt and we hadn't much left to give.

I still don’t think I can explain what Balkan music sounds like, but I don’t care too much about my disability. This music is so rooted in such deep sentiments that words will keep failing to explain. And who cares about explanations anyway? Let me show you this amazing magic trick...

Any given Sunday – Manu Chao + La Troba Kung Fu @ Brixton Electric

Sometimes I wonder if Sundays have a similar effect on other people as they have on me. I've been here for 2 years now and my hypothesis is that Londoners couldn't care less about it: it’s just the second day in the weekend, and hence let’s get up at 8 AM and make the most of it, go for breakfast, go for brunch, munch, I have a hunch this is going to be a nice and productive Sunday. Ehhh... what happened to the so called psychological factor? Nothing, not a clue of it; Londoners are doers. I wish I could always look at Sunday in the eye and say: ‘You are nothing but the seventh day of the week, and you are a free day, so I don’t give a fuck if you feel grey and gloomy today... we are going out’. Well, sometimes I do it: this is the story of one of those Sundays.

I learnt Manu Chao was playing in London, out of the blue and as part of a charity festival in South London. I had never seen them live, so I thought this was a great chance to challenge the dying weekend and finish with some groove.

I got to the Electric in Brixton around 8; as usual, I thought I was arriving late, but this time I wasn't too concerned... even if they tried, Manu Chao would never start on time. My theory was confirmed when I saw a 200 meter static queue, starting from the venue's door. Walking alongside it I started looking at the people waiting to get in, and I was invaded by the most beautiful nostalgic feeling: long curly hairs, untidy beards, baggy trousers, ethnic rucksacks and rustic pullovers, everything embedded in a strong human smell. It was like being back at home, a laid back atmosphere translated into clothing and hairdos, just like before a reggae gig in Niceto Club, back in Buenos Aires.

When I got in I realised there were a few supporting acts (which I didn't know about, of course). I think I've expressed my opinion about supporting acts before. When you go to a restaurant, how many starters do you have? Either you have one, or you might share a few with other people, almost like a nice treat to warm up your belly, because you still want to save some space (end especially energy) for the main course. Well, they had 2 ‘starters’ that night, plus Manu later. Maybe a little too much?

The first act was La Troba Kung Fu, a band from Barcelona. Led by Joan Garriega, accordionist and voice of the band, they do a mix of Spanish rumba, cumbia and bit of reggae and ska; certainly an interesting combination. But I think the best about these guys is that they were able to read an audience that was eager to forget about everything for an hour and let themselves go. We were all sitting in a happiness train, we only needed the driver to show up and start the engine. After the first tune, La Troba had the crowd jumping and cheering as if we were all watching our favourite band from all times. I'm pretty sure most of us didn't know who they were, but these great things happen when the passengers have the right vibe and the driver of the train knows what he’s doing.

I'm not going to write too much about the second act because it was bad, definitely bad. The concept was all wrong: a selection of musicians alternating guitar playing and singing, over a DJ track. I mean, I'm sure they are all good artist separately, but together they did one helluva mess. A complete turn off. Like thinking of your grandmother when you’re about to have sex.

After at least 50 painful minutes these guys decided to put an end to our misery. But it was too late. My spirit was trashed. The second starter had been a lead soufflé, with a thick engine oil coulis. Too much for my poor Sunday stomach.

Manu appeared on stage shortly after that, and spent 5 minutes thanking the warmth of the people, touching his heart with both hands and putting his right fist in the air. You could tell he's a simple man, and he was overwhelmed with the people's love.  It was the first time I saw him on stage, and I instantly liked him. Probably a great guy to share a summer barbecue with.

The show was OK, but it was nothing like those unforgettable marathonic gigs I had heard so much about. I think it was mainly because he didn't have the full band with him (he played with a formation of only 4). And let’s face it, Manu Chao can be amazing, but without a good percussion section, a couple of brasses and maybe a violin, his songs could be a bit Spanish guitar monotone, with too many 3 chord tonic-fourth-fifth transitions. It wasn't bad; lovely people, great energy, but they didn't blow me away.



My Sunday finished later than usual, but left behind a smile on my face. It was definitely worth it, and got me thinking that I should do it more often. Maybe I am turning into a Londoner after all...