Strike the Empire Back

When I left the house yesterday, the sky was buzzing with police helicopters. Whenever I see one, I think of the movie "Charlie Wilson's War." I have fantasies of standing on a rooftop with a shoulder-mounted missile launcher and bringing the motherfucker down. Here I am, knocking on the door of middle age, and I can't remember when I last saw the cops as anything but the enemy.
A general strike had been called for 29th March to protest the austerity budget getting rammed through by the conservative government this week. With Spain's economy circling the toilet and Europe being effectively run from Berlin, the country is bracing itself for what promises to be a brutal assault on the welfare state that people here have come to take for granted. The Socialists, reduced to opposition, supported the strike in theory. Thanks a lot, guys. Where were you last May when thousands of us took to the streets demanding the very same changes? Oh yeah. You were in power. I find it disheartening that when the financial crisis hit, revealing the global economic system to be a crooked casino game, instead of sweeping it aside and working on something new, every country in the world doubled down on free markets and rolled the dice again.
It was a surreal scene as I slowly cycled up Pg de Gracia, the city's main artery, lined with all the luxury stores that regularly get shout-outs from Kanye and Jay-Z. (One percent rap?) The street, and may others, had been blocked off to cars as people marched, waved flags and chanted slogans. The Barcelona stock exchange was extensively guarded by a row of paddy wagons. It made me wonder how cops, never the silver spoon types, so willingly become the lapdogs for the rich and  powerful. Is the thrill of carrying a gun really such a draw? Those humble public servants dutifully protected the building from the fate that befell many other (less important?) banks - smashed windows and burning garbage bins. People decry the destruction as counter-productive and they may have a point, but I don't think a couple of bank presidents hanging from the Gaudi-designed street lamps would have been excessive.
There were massive rallies later on. Even strikes happen on Spanish time. Five o'clock is a little late to call a demonstration in my opinion. It's a day of protest, not a late afternoon of protest. Thousands more came out, but I missed those. On Thursday afternoons, I teach private lessons to kids, and it seemed a little weird to strike against the people who are coming out of pocket to further their children's education. I recognize that, on the one hand, it's a rationalization and younger more idealistic me would have done it anyway. Sadly, younger more idealistic me doesn't have much of a say in my life anymore. Maybe he should go on strike.

Must... sleep...

I am an occasional sufferer of insomnia. This week has been one of those occasions.
I suppose it should come as no surprise that someone who had an ulcer in the 2nd grade and was dubbed Woody Allen by my own mother even before the hormonal angst of puberty set in would find something as banal as sleep to be elusive.
The mind at 5am is an elastic thing. You realize, it tells me, that in the time you've spent staring at the inside of your eyeballs you could have driven (or been driven - still no license) from Barcelona to Madrid, Montreal to Toronto or New York to DC? No wonder Tyler Durden traveled around the country setting up a secret society of disenfranchised good-looking white men. Poor unhappy Jared Leto. Speaking of which, it continues, what's the deal with all the Ryan Gossling love? His acting range extends from blank to a slight smirk and Drive was a very stylish root canal. What are you missing? Lars and the Real Girl? All that movie was needed was Zooey Deschanel, who is a decent singer who makes terrible movies and worse sitcoms. Seriously, IMDB her. The Happening. That Garden-State-meets-Memento bullshit-a-thon 500 (days) of (summer). (Or however it's punctuated - annoying even to a serial abuser of the parenthesis.) And why doesn't anyone like the new Shins album? Are they tired of having their lives changed?     
Is spending all night worrying about pop culture a step up or a step down from obsessing over your own existential issues, it wonders.
Why, it implores, will you drink a beer or smoke a joint, but not take a sleeping pill?
Yet, come daylight, it retreats into its shell like a frightened turtle, leaving me to stare blankly at my computer screen while my boss angrily tells me off for not answering her calls. Calls which come at any hour and are usually about nothing important. (Correction: They are always about nothing important. We send language teachers to companies. The worst that could happen is Jordi doesn't spend a lunch hour learning about the 2nd conditional.)
Sorry, I mumble. I had insomnia.

BEP & Me

Remember when you found out I was blogging again? (No? It was yesterday! Check your Facebook.) Your first question was "Has time tempered him? Age wizened him? Love softened him?" (I know: three questions. See yesterday re: your birthright.) You naturally wondered if the acerbic wit that almost brought a smile to your face on maybe a couple of occasions would continue to provoke near reactions in you from time to time. (Sorry, I read your diary.)
Fear not. The same impotent rage that drove me in October fuels me today. Especially today, when I saw this:

Oh good.
If what was missing from your life was the mind-blowing talent of The Black Eyed Peas without the (Sesame) street charisma of Will.i.am or the transgendered charm of Fergie, well buddy, your life is now complete.
I could never express the inanity and atrocity that is the Black Eyes Peas as well as this article, so instead I will share with you my own personal experience of them, which is kind of like being liberated after 15 years in anonymous captivity only to find out the first chick you did it with once you were freed was your own daughter, so you cut out your tongue just to never have to speak of it again.
Sometime prior to the turn of the millennium, my band 2 Skinnee J's had the honor of playing at Red Rocks in Colorado. An outdoor venue nestled in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains perhaps most famous for the setting of the U2 concert/album/film Under a Blood Red Sky, it really is a magical place. We were psyched to play there and it was fun to watch the other bands. It was a reggae festival, so who knows why the fuck we were on the bill, but good vibes bro. One band that played after us was another live hip hop band, a multi-culti collection of skaters and backpackers fronted by three MCs (sans trannie) called the Black Eyed Peas. They had had a song on a soundtrack that sounded a little like A Tribe Called Quest lite, and I was curious to see their show.
They fucking rocked. For realz. The band was tight while the rappers worked the crowd like a three-headed break-dancing hydra. It was truly awesome.
To put this in a greater context let me give you a little history lesson rant like an grumpy senior citizen explain: artistically, it sucked being in a live rap band in the late 90s. A decade earlier, hip hop had been the most exciting music around. Rock was still a couple of years away from shedding the spandex and eyeliner, and electronic music was, well, electronic music. I vividly remember the first time I heard Public Enemy, Boogie Down Productions and De La Soul. It isn't an exaggeration to say those bands changed my life. A few years later I was living in Brooklyn, rapping with a bunch of guys who, like me, had fallen in love with the art form after growing up on the new wave, punk and rock of the 80's. In our minds, we were fusing the music of our youth into an exciting blend of beat-based, hooky awesomeness. It turns out, in everybody else's, we were like Limp Bizkit, but pussies. Nu metal had come along and shit the bed for any band that wanted to rap and play guitar, and everybody was getting stained by the mess.
This made it extra exciting to be part of any gig that showed us in the same light we saw ourselves. The Roots, Cibo Matto, Native Tongues: these were the bills we were amped to play. The fact that we did get to play them was satisfying on many levels. And that day near Denver, the Black Eyed Peas were a part of that.
They then went on to become simultaneously the worst and the biggest band in the world, celebrating the same kind of idiocy, if not the aggression, that we so dutifully spent the 90s disdaining.
The poo cherry on the puke sundae was when I discovered a couple of years ago that a friend of mine, one of my favorite artists from those days who we played with a lot, had become a producer of theirs. (And other equally terrible music) It was like finding out your favorite uncle has been bombing abortion clinics.
So fuck Taboo spinning whatever David Guetta b-sides he sees fit for drunk Scandinavians next week at Sutton. One Black Eyed Pea is still too many Black Eyes Peas.

Since Last We Spoke...

Remember way back in the before time, the long-long ago? A simpler, more innocent era when life was easy and things made sense? Me either. But I'm pretty sure I was snide about it in pithy little snippets that I posted to one salientgreen.net.(R.I.P. - also fuck you, Zen internet!)
Well, those days are gone forever and you should just  let them go. Don't stop thinking about tomorrow. It's a whole new world. (Not just helpful advice. Best. Playlist. Ever.)
Welcome to Salient Green 2.0. It has a more complicated address (free for me!) but that's what bookmarks are for. So go ahead and like this or follow this or instagram this or whatever you kids do with technology nowadays, but I'm back, baby!
Once more, this will be your one-stop emporium for the latest Noah Green news. (The 2nd least reliable news source there is!)
Here is a quick round-up of the latest:
Les Fat Jones is now a fully functioning rock band. We recorded an album that will be released shortly somewhere, somehow. In the meantime, you can listen to a couple of tracks here and check out our awesome video here (Serious. Art.) If you live in Barcelona, or are spontaneous and rich, you can come see us on Saturday 31st March at Sidecar. Get there early. We're the opening band.
My Great Big Capitalist Adventure now has a slightly easier to pronounce name: Questular. It's a mobile app that's live on the app store and usable in Barcelona. Download it, play it and rate it (max stars, please!) As it spreads and grows, I will keep you abreast of its arrival in your town. It's headed there.
I also plan to continue being slightly smug and self satisfied, as per my birthright as a Canadian living abroad, (Ok, I wasn't born  a Canadian living abroad, but I'm pretty sure your birthright wasn't to correct my flawed syntax and/or logic) so you can expect more photos of terrible hairstyles. As my integration continues, I will send back reports from the front.
I plan to be more active on this so you can come and check in often. (I also plan to go running three or four times a week, so take that as you will.) You can follow me on twitter @noahdjgreen. You can buy me drink sometime. (Once a musician, always a musician!)
In any case, I hope to fill that ever so tiny Noah-shaped hole in your life. (Yup, that's what that was. And you were worried it was a tumor!)