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...
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