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...

Northern Carnival - Kalakuta Millionaires, Voodoo Love Orchestra & Maracatu @ Hootananny Brixton

When I think of carnival I usually think of big snail-slow platforms going through a long street, oily men and women dancing in massive costumes made of gigantic colourful feathers , turning the dance  into some kind of slow motion left to right, right to left, slightly up and down routine. To some extent it makes good sense: I've never seen a peacock making skilful moves to the sound of drums, it’s just too dangerous for its perfectly crafted outfit. I also think of carnival as something you would find primarily in Brazil and to less extent in Argentina and Uruguay. My bad: carnival has gone global. Notting Hill has one every year, and it’s quite good apparently... but I'm not going to talk about Notting Hill carnival because I wasn't actually there; the point is that there was a bit of a festive energy a few weeks ago in London, which definitely had some influence on the gig I went to. NB: shame on me, I should have posted this ages ago...


Saturday was the chosen day, and South London my destination. I got the tube a couple of minutes past 10 PM, and I instantly put my earphones on to get myself in the right mood. I listened to Curtis Mayfield. My cart, the second from the back, was almost completely empty, except for a guy a couple of meters away from me, plugged to some white headphones and absolutely focused on a little orange juice bottle in his right hand. I thought it was a bit strange to have such a lonesome image on a Saturday evening; maybe it was the drizzle outside, but then again, we are in the UK, who gets put off by rain? I could hear Curtis’ stereo soul inside my ears… ‘If there is a hell below, we’re all gonna go…’

I got off half an hour later at my destination. As I was emerging to the surface in the escalator, a guy walked past me down the stairs; he was wearing black oxford pants and denim jacket, and he had a ragged, tight t-shirt with Twiggy’s face on it. She was crying. He was as thin and tall as most of the cast of ‘Almost Famous’… and of course, he had Robert Plant’s hairdo. Curtis kept singing in the back of my head, now with a mellower voice, ‘I come from the other side of town, Alabama’. I was in Brixton.

After a short walk from the station I arrived to my final destination, and one of my favourite venues in London: Hootananny. I din’t pay to get in, which could only mean one thing: I was early, so I would get to see the 3 live bands. It’s going to be a long night I thought (and this is going to be a long post).

The first band I heard was called Maracatu and they basically did batucada  which is a typical Brazilian music, done only with percussion. Most of the members were women; they were all dressed in white and they were actually all white. I kept asking myself if they were actually form Brazil (presumably from the South, they looked quite European), or if they were English with a deep love for Southamerican culture. They played massive drums, shakers and cowbells, quite well as a matter of fact. The women also sang. And here I had a problem with them being all white: I think there was a lower pitch voice missing in the ensemble. I was craving for a voice like those from some of the African descendent women selling food in the streets of Salvador, which could have turn into Aretha Franklins if only there were music producers with a good ear buying food that day. In any case the band was interesting to hear, but just for a while.

The second band chose an unusual format: instead of going on stage, they came out from the venue’s backyard, playing completely unplugged. I happened to be outside when they started playing, firstly forming a circle in the middle of Hootananny’s beer garden, and then slowly walking in line as if they were a marching band. In fact they were a bit of a marching band: the conductor was carrying a portable drumset, and she had at least 8 musicians following her, playing basically brass and percussion. Marching slowly through the garden and playing some catchy wind melodies, people (myself included) started following them as the tail of a musical comet. Some were a bit reluctant in the beginning but by the time Voodoo Love Orchestra (that’s how they were called) entered the interior of pub, there were at least 50 of us following them in a proper improvised parade. The energy was amazing: having a tuba blowing a groovy baseline 15 inches away from your right ear is definitely something worth experiencing before death by Tecno music.

The band kept on going, alternating saxophone and trumpet solos, making their way onto stage, where they played a few more minutes (I’d love to say they played one or two more tunes, but the way I remember it was like a 70 minutes long carnival melody). My attention got slightly diverted at that point, because I spent no less than 10 minutes watching a silent couple sitting around a small table in one of the corners of the venue. That is one of the beauties of South London: you can find these characters blended with the average London crowd (well… what is the average London crowd anyway?), as if they had escaped from a William Burrough’s novel through a time tunnel, and got out right next to Brixton’s H&M. This couple was probably in their mid-fifties; they were both quite thin and had white hair, and they wore Grateful Dead-looking clothes, probably as old as the wheel. They just sat there, exchanging no more than a few words per minute, enjoying the show and certainly enjoying the vibe of the venue. But above all, you could actually feel there were two really peaceful souls inside those bodies. If that isn’t wisdom, shoot me right here.

A few minutes later, Kalakuta Millionaires started playing. To my surprise, most of the musicians were the same as the ones from the moving musical train that had finished just a while before. As these guys went on stage you could sense something good was about to happen. This musical collective (I call it like that when I try to count the people in the band and I give up after losing count in the third attempt) plays an interesting afro-funk, with splashes of latin grooves, floating in a quite jazzy mood where every performer has space to explore their deepest improvisation curls. But always keeping the lighthearted vibe of the band, that gets under your skin and bones. The great rhythmic base (drums, bass, percussion and guitar) is the sauce where the other instruments get cooked: an assortment of saxs, a trumpet that for some moments sounds like it was born and raised in Mexico City, and a trombone that could kill you with darts of groove. Long tunes, those you only  know they are finishing when you hear the winds section agreeing on an irresistible melody that falls on you like a big piece of concrete saying ‘this bit is about to end’.

It was almost 2 AM when I decided that my big fat evening of sounds and colourful characters needed to come to an end. So after getting my classic after-midnight bite, I started walking down the road, and still with a ‘beeeeeee’ in my ears and ketchup in my mouth, I lifted my left hand (the one that wasn’t busy dismantling a burger) and stopped a bus to get back home.

Proper music - Beirut @ Hammersmith Apollo

I rushed through my building door checking the time on my phone, with that horrible feeling that it was late and I was going to miss the first part of the gig. I hate that feeling. Two friends that were already inside the venue had told me I were not to worry since there was a support act, but I still had that annoying feeling. Doors open 7PM, said the ticket, and it was already quarter past eight, so I raised my pace to get quicker to the tube station… only to realise once there, while doing my last ‘I have everything’ check, that I had left the tickets at home. Perfect. A great start of the weekend. Maybe the support act is some kind of Pinkfloydian band presenting a new double album with 12 minutes tunes, I thought, and after looking at the station ceiling, closing my eyes, contracting all the muscles in my jaw and coursing every single one of my internal organs, I convinced myself that everything was F I N E and went back to get the bloody tickets.

Fortunately I was right. I arrived with perfect timing: the support band had just finished. I went to get a beer whilst texting my friends inside to find a meeting point. The beer was cold, the Hammersmith Apollo was pretty full but not unbearably packed; life was good.  And it was about to get better.

Zach Condon & Co came out and an expressive audience instantly started an avalanche of applauses, while the musicians were taking their places. A Scenic World was the selected tune to open the show. A perfect choice. A sweet string of notes from the accordion led the way, and after a couple of seconds I felt a kick in my chest. Boom. What the hell was that? The drums and an electric double bass had joined forces to make my stomach tremble like Scooby Doo frighten by ghosts. What’s going on here? Is this the same mellow band that I love to hear when I’m a bit down, seeking for a bittersweet melody? It was… only unexpectedly boosted.

After a couple of tunes I was still amazed about what these guys were doing on stage. The beautiful harmonies of the trumpets, moving from Guadalajara to Belgrade, turning the word ‘distance’ into a merely abstract concept.  The un-capricious switching of tuba and trombone, alternatively aiding the bass or the brass section, to make of every of tune something different, but part of the same family. The grooves from the drums and bass, flawless mattresses for the other instruments to land safely in their creative jumps. I probably spent a few songs carefully listening to drums, trying to figure out what was that made them sound so peculiar. I never quite got it; I think it was a mixture of equalisation and the drummer playing like freaking human metronome, and making every detail count. The accordion spiced the musical stew with some nostalgia, keys and ukulele completed the repertoire of ingredients.

I usually pay a lot of attention to the dynamic of the band on stage. In this case, I got the impression that Beirut was playing as if they were rehearsing in their studio, almost like saying ‘hey guys, this is what we’ve been working on in the last few years’. Beautiful. I love when big artist keep sight of the fact they are there (primarily) to make music. From changing instruments (at least 3 different people had a go on the keys) to the way they stood in front of the mic. Kyle Resnick, ceremoniously still, almost like a statue when executing his trumpet melodies; Nick Petree on drums, moving his head and smiling as the little dogs taxi drivers have in their cars; Zach tapping his chest to the three four time in Elephant Gun and occasionally doing some fairly impressive jazzy dance moves (when you have the rhythm… well, you just have it).

The tunes went on and the crowd responded according to the great vibe irradiated from stage. When the first chords of Santa Fe started to sound, the theatre filled with blue phone screens rising from the deep dark pockets and purses. The set went pop with East Harlem, and dropped almost instantly to the shadows of melancholy with the intriguing The Akara. I did my best  to keep my attention on the drummer’s moving head when next to me an enthusiastic couple tried (unsuccessfully) to sing along  The Rip Tide. Fortunately for me and for the people standing less than 2 meters away, they gave up after a few attempts; we all  got our smile back and were able to enjoy an epic end with The Gulag Orkestar. The show was over, we were stuffed.

The day after the show I told a friend that I had been to Beirut’s show at The Apollo. ‘It exceeded my expectations’ I remember saying. ‘Yeah mate, that’s proper music’. He couldn’t have articulated better. Indeed, it had been a night of proper music.

At the Royal Albert Tube

One day you get up in the morning and you say to yourself: today I'm going busking.

I honestly don't know if it happens like that or not - street music has never been something I dared to explore. I remember playing on the street, but the busking attitude was not there. Probably I never thought I was good enough to go out there and blow my art to the four winds expecting some change in return. I have to admit though, I admire and applaud musicians that stand on a corner and do their thing. Whether it's about performing Bach with a cello or Dylan with an acoustic guitar and some weird machinery that moves a puppet that hits a tambourine to the sound of blacks (have you seen those?), I think the world needs more street artists.

There is, however, a theory I've developed after years of carefully listen to street artists. It's not even a theory, it's more of a mere recommendation; not even that, it's a simple a request, a desperate call to common sense: if you are going for tube stations, please please please make sure you have mastered your instrument beforehand.

Think about this: people don't have too many things to get distracted down there. That is why tube ads have these never-ending copies that you WILL read, whether you are interested in losing 3 stones in a week or not. A similar thing happens with the music from tube artists: for a few seconds or maybe even minutes you are their hostage: you are there and you have nowhere else to go. So unless you go through life with those noise cancelling headsets the airport workers use on landing fields to show the pilots where to go, 'this way, yes, come closer, just a liiiittle bit more, now slightly to the right... well done mate, you're all done here', you will have to listen to the performance. There is no street-crossing, no wind taking the dissonant notes to France, no traffic horns to mask a chorus that was too challenging from the beginning. Just the sound of footsteps and music. Moreover, most of the times the acoustic down there is so bad that it would make you think even a Steve Vai solo is sounding 'a bit dodgy'.

It can be very rewarding as well though. Loads of people, not many things to get distracted with, tourists with big wide smiles in their faces and that fantastic 'wow, I'm in London' expression. My hypothesis is that the underground environment is almost like the Royal Albert Hall of public locations. But with exposure comes responsibility... beware my fellow violinist: a Paganini Capriccio can make your blood boil, but it might as well make you feel like being stabbed to death by 10,000 tiny needles.

I was recently in Barcelona where I listened to this guy trying to get across a decent version of Knocking On Heaven's door. With an acoustic guitar. Not a great show I must say, especially with the 40 degrees inside, that would have melted Batman's mask, armour and courage. Come on, A minor is not that difficult! But a week after that, I was doing the classic Piccadilly-Northern line combination at Leicester Square and suddenly I hear the voice of an angel: a guy playing Elton John’s ‘Your Song' with his keyboard. Ok, it’s been done to death, but this dude was absolutely absorbed by his music, eyes closed , doing the whole Stevie Wonder routine and all, and he was absolutely brilliant. What a role model, I wished the guy from Barcelona had been there, that would have encouraged him to emerge to the surface and practice a little more.

So my point is: if public spaces are part of your game, aim for the tube, but make sure you know what you are doing. Potentially you could be the main character of that story we tell our friends a couple years from now, in the middle of show at the very Royal Albert Hall: 'you know... I saw this guy playing on the tube once...'

This video is quite old, but these guys are still busking today in London and Cambridge. They are called Fernando's Kitchen and they also play in really good venues all over the place. And great music by the way...

Once upon a time in Shoreditch – East Park Reggae Collective @ The Bedroom Bar

Last Saturday the evening started off earlier than usual. Around 7 I met up with an ex colleague of mine that quit her job about a week ago; over a beer in a little green area close to the south entrance of London Fields, she was telling me how happy she was for her decision to leave and have a fresh start. She made me think (but that's for a different post). The day had been amazing, a proper summer afternoon, and you could see some people making a move from the park to the pub, where Mo Farah was getting a new medal.

The evening continued with some Brazilian friends joining us at The Cat & Mutton pub. I quite like that place, could be a bit too hipster sometimes, but the music upstairs is OK and it has a cool vibe. I bought the first round and started telling everyone about this great reggae gig I was going to, trying to convince them to join me. I knew there were some lost cases, but I thought I had a chance with others; to my surprise, this Brazilian bunch was not very attracted by reggae. Apparently you need to be lying on the beach, with the warm late afternoon sun on your face and an ice cold beer in your right hand to be in the reggae mood... difficult to find here in London. Their loss anyway.

So I jumped onto the 26 bus and got off somewhere in Shoreditch, walked 3 minutes and I was at The Bedroom Bar, where East Park Reggae Collective was about to start the show. I paid and went past a big scary doorman, almost without looking at his face, that scary he was. Already inside I had to do a bit of an expedition to find my friends; the venue was actually quite big, and had these kind of ethnic beds upstairs, with a reddish light, I could definitely see a wild techno party going on there after the show, the environment was perfect. When I finally got hold of my friends we went downstairs where the band was about to start.

The show started with probably one of the best things of the night: the presenter. This guy, dressed in an eighties Ska style (the jacket, the shoes and of course, the hat slightly moved to one side) went on stage and started presenting the band... he started off almost as if he wasn't very convinced about what he was doing, but after a couple of words we turned into a William Wallace of gigs, and we were as excited about watching a Yorkshire reggae band as the Scottish before Stirling battle. What an intro... I remembered a few  years ago in Buenos Aires, when a local ska band called Dancing Mood would have also this kind of vintage presenter to warm up the audience. Note to self: get a good presenter next time I play live.

Then EPRC kicked off. The first thing that struck me was the base of the band, I mean the drums and bass combo. I had a strange reaction, because I was expecting that perfect marriage between these 2, that iconic reggae mark leaving all those empty spaces to be filled by little details and beautiful melodies. That never came, but instead we got something different: powerful drums playing more electronic-like grooves, and a bass guitar with life of its own. The marriage was broken, but I didn't care. The peak of these 2 was at some point when they joined forces with the keys (actually a robotic synth at that point) to play a proper dubstep groove. I realised this wasn't traditional reggae when I saw the crowd (myself included) shaking heads and torsos up and down in an energetic and almost spastic movement.

The show went on, with EPRC taking us in a journey of catchy melodies led the 3-piece winds section, minimalistic guitar sounds and some cool explorations by Johnny Tomlinson on keys, apparently responsible for most or all of the song writing. Everything beautifully conducted by the voice of Anna Stott... but she deserves an extra paragraph. 

I have to confess, I had a bit of a crush for her for a couple of minutes. I don't know if it was the great singing or just the way she moved on stage; she looked and danced like a 1950s mermaid, leaning back and lifting her half bended arms up, playing with her wrists, almost like doing an ancient tribal dance to light up a bonfire. I couldn’t get my eyes off her for a while. She was the queen of the stage, and we all knew it. 

I should probably say the crowd was OK but not like the one I've seen in other gigs in Dalston or Brixton. My guess is that Shoreditch is the coolest boy in school; he has loads of friends, gets along with almost everyone, but never fully understood that skinny boy with dreadlocks that wears baggy pants, scruffy t-shirts and sits on the back watching the birds outside the window...

The gig then finished just before one. I had lost my tube back home, but that was part of the plan. And I didn’t care too much about it because it was a perfect time to stop at Brick Lane and get my favourite after midnight treat: a hot salt beef bagel. 

How can I sum it up? A great night. Got my chance to see some live English reggae and these guys nailed it, daring to go further and try some other cool stuff as well. Yorkshire... keep ‘em coming!

http://www.myspace.com/eastparkreggaecollective

So it begins...

Today I've open this space... with the idea of writing about music... let´s see what I can come up with...