Hey Guys!

Guess what?! It turns out I totally have a blog! Crazy, right? I know! It's like when someone tries to bum a cigarette and you're all like "I don't smoke", and then you get home and empty your pockets and suddenly remember that you've had a carton-a-week habit for decades as you pull out a pack of Camels, open it, lovingly caress your last one and light it. "Thank God I didn't give this one to that mooch," you think as you inhale deeply, adjusting the wig that hides the toll that months of radiation therapy have taken on your fragile frame. Just like that!
I mean, instead of ranting futilely into the void, I could have been ranting productively on the interwebs. Colour me embarrassed.
So much has happened:
I went back to Istanbul. Second time there. I love that city. Have you been? I don't know - you don't have a blog. It's a crazy exciting metropolis with millennia of history and culture and amazing food. Go.
Japan is up next. Woo hoo!
Closer to home, last week a corrupt Spanish politician was gunned down in the street by the mother of some girl she'd fucked over. Right now, the Spanish police could be kicking in my door to arrest me for suggesting that maybe some awful lady who scams over a hundred and fifty grand a year from the public coffers while faking eligibility for free trips to NYC and bullying the opposition and the press deserves to eat a lead sandwich with the works. (They're making it illegal, you know) If only I'd been paying attention to my bookmarks.
Eurovision! The fun I could have had with Eurovision. Buxom slavs and bearded ladies. Oh well. Next year.
In the meantime, I have a band too. That one is easier to remember. We recorded and played a couple of shows and I keep paying for rehearsal time, so it's harder to ignore. We've been accepted as semi-finalists in a radio contest. I'm not sure what we can win (apparently not too hard to ignore) but it's probably something cool like hats or beer, so I would really appreciate it if you would click on the link and vote for us. Just tick the box at the bottom of the page and click Enviar. Thanks.
My annual rock orgy takes place next week as I spend three days in the ugliest part of the city taking in the sweet noise of Primavera Sound. (With JB. Woo hoo!) I'll tell you all about it if it doesn't slip my mind.

VOTE FOR LES FAT JONES HERE!

For The Record...

Les Fat Jones are particularly good at one thing: rehearsing. I think we played a total of four shows in 2013, but we still meet every Tuesday evening like clockwork to shuffle down into a basement in Bellvitges to bang out some rock and roll. As a result, we have a bunch of new songs, so we decided it was time to make another album.
Local musician Joan Colomo came on board to produce. A veteran of the local scene, he's made a name for himself in recent years as a singer/songwriter. He's got loads of charisma and talent, which we hoped would seep into our recording.
With him locked down, we set out to find a studio, and man, did we ever find one. I don't know how your past few weekends have been (I mean I hope they've been good, because I'm not a dick most of the time) but mine have been pretty fantastic.

We drove out into Catalan wine country, about an hour from Barcelona, to Cal Pau, an old house sitting in the middle of vineyards that has been converted into a recording studio. It seemed like the sort of self indulgence that Bono or Anthony Kiedis would embrace, but fuck, if you're gonna play rock star, might as well play it right.

Rock and roll with a view

Part of the building has bedrooms, bathrooms, a kitchen and all the stuff you'd find in a normal country house. Also vintage motorcycles. The place is full of them. Restored, possibly functional. We weren't able to actually check.

Not that we didn't try

Meanwhile, the back part (of the building, not the bikes) has been outfitted with a recording studio. Here we toiled away. Over the course of three intensive weekends, we put nine songs to tape. (Not actual tape. I mean we didn't go all retro and stuff. Cubase it was.)

Joan surprised by his own technical acumen at the board

Our rehearsing paid off. We were able to lay our tracks down quickly, giving us time to experiment a little. Obviously, not Smile levels of experimentation, as we didn't have Brian Wilson amounts of time or drugs, but enough to throw some ideas against the wall to see if they stuck. Some did, and some slithered to the floor to lie in a puddle of their own decomposing corpses. Such is the process of creation. 

Poke on the drums

Amiel on the bass, Noah on the iPhone

Victor on guitar

Lost in thought or mouth breathing?

Drums and bass were finished in the first weekend, much faster than we expected. This gave us the rest of the time to record guitars (awesome) keyboards (fun - they had a Rhodes lying around. can a large electric piano lie around?) and vocals. Ah vocals. Now, I'm not a strong singer, just an enthusiastic one. My childhood was spent ignoring the pleas of others to stop it, or at least find the right key. I have improved slightly since then, but my range could generously be described as limited. As such, recording vocals is a weird experience. I love being in the booth, but I'm always wary of the results. I feel like as a band, we put together a tasty cake, and then I smeared some shit on it as icing. It looks like chocolate and hopefully nobody will notice the smell. 

Singing selfie (not actually singing. fucking selfies)

Well, it's all done now, we've moved on to mixing, the fun stage where everybody in the band realises what each song needs is more of them. 

Apparently iPhone consultation is an inherent part of recording

see above

More updates will come soon, hopefully followed by (gasp!) some concerts.

Watch this space. 

Uplift Inc.

Have you seen the video where the lesbian groundhog saves the muslim whale from the burning toy factory for left-handed orphans? Of course you did. You posted it on your Facebook feed, a little smile breaking across your tear-stained face, before clicking on 38 Things You Can Only Understand If You Were Born In October 1975. It's true, you thought, shaking your head. I did used to eat breakfast cereal with a cartoon character on the box. It's like they know me!
I don't want to get all bah humbug on everybody's party, but enough! As an elderly gentleman sitting on my e-porch, I'm old enough to remember when Facebook was for pictures of food, pets and babies. Maybe those were simpler times, but dammit we liked those times. They were our times. Not the times of websites whose entire business model is based on making you laugh or cry and then feel a little better about yourself.
I promise that I'm not being cynical. Tear porn click bait is. I believe we can be stirred by each other  without thirty second life-is-a-box-of-chocolates clips manufactured to capture advertising revenue. This shit is James Frey distilled for the Vine age. It's manipulative, disingenuous and fake. We are better than that. I am lucky enough to have a ton of awesome friends who do really cool stuff, and I'm way more psyched to hear about them than about any combination of firemen, dancing, school kids, hugs, animals, etc.
In 2014, let's resolve to uplift and inspire each other with what we do, not with what we copy and paste. Happy new year everybody.

Groins of Steel

You may have noticed I haven't been blogging much lately, and by lately I mean 2013. You've noticed, right? You've felt a nagging lack in your life where Salient Green used to be? Hello? Anyone? Bueller?
The reason for this is simple. I am lazy live a life that, while interesting to me, doesn't seem like the sort of thing worth discussing with the internet. Lately I've felt like leaving the pithy bon mots to Twitter hoaxers and focusing on the more pressing matters of trying to get the damn waiter's attention for another round. I'm just not doing anything that I necessarily feel like sharing. That is, until yesterday afternoon. That shit needs to be shared.
Yesterday, I went to a roller derby. As a child of the seventies, I remember the tales of women on roller skates beating the crap out of each other for fame and fortune, but I always thought that, like Jesus, it was something made up to sound cool. But like Paul on the road to Damascus (just like it) yesterday, I was made a believer.

Amen!

We took the subway to the end of the line, where the mountains that frame the horizon of Barcelona are strikingly close, snaked through a humble neighbourhood of low houses and bars to the local sports centre. There, we discovered two teams of women in spandex and roller-skates (not roller blades) engaged in the high speed, full contact sport that is roller derby.
The whole event had a very punk-rock vibe, from the pierced door girl and the tattooed announcers to the actual punk-rock music playing over the loud speakers. The Barcelona team, named Groins of Steel, (really!) were hosting the less imaginatively named Roller Derby Porto. (From Porto. Duh)

Barcelona's mascot is a cockroach

The athletes all have groan-worthy nicknames like Cam Pain and Lady Di-struction, but after watching them fearlessly smash into each other while flying on skates, I'll leave it to a braver soul than me to mock them.

eg: AnnieWhere

The rules of the game are difficult to explain, but easy to pick up in person. After about ten minutes, I had a decent enough understanding to follow the starts and stops of the match and cheer at the appropriate moments. It got really competitive and violent, with moments where almost entire sides were sitting in the penalty box for throwing elbows and such, but the vibe was fun, with the crowd and the competitors enjoying themselves immensely, high fiving and grinning all the way through. And really, what's not to enjoy about standing with a beer in hand (unlike the football stadium where alcohol is banned) watching some wheeled athletic ladies in tight clothes throw each other to the ground. I think  I've found my new sport. Suck it New York Jets!

The Manitoban Candidate

Thank you America! I live in a country where it is common knowledge that the president accepted under the table payments of embezzled party funds, but you guys have made this banana republic seem like a functioning first world democracy.
Watching a small band of lunatics hold the country hostage in a failed attempt to deny the poorest amongst you cheaper healthcare has been a surreal experience, and this from the vantage point of a place where the king's own daughter was a front for shady land deals.
Watching the laughable debacle known as the Tea Party squirm around like a senile old uncle with shit in his pants sitting at Thanksgiving dinner and complaining about the smell has led me to one conclusion: beware of Ted Cruz! Now, my liberal friends, I see you smugly shaking your heads and saying "yeah, thanks, we know" but actually I'm not talking to you. I'm talking to you conservative dupes: Ted Cruz is obviously a Canadian spy. Crazy like a fox Teddy boy has obviously been sent across the border to infiltrate and undermine the Republican party. How else do you explain the actions of a guy who acts like dragging the party's popularity into the sewer is some sort of grand victory, and who, on his first day back at work, continues to  act like a spoilt child by holding up a government nomination over a moot law. This is the work of a master agent provocateur. He will not stop until the Republican party has been decimated and communism rules the land. And you idiots want to run him for president. 

Ten Lessons in Ten Years

Yesterday I went over to my friends' for a barbecue. What better way to spend a sunny Sunday than eating meat and drinking beer? None way, say I, and so was meat eaten and beer drunk and all were merry. One of several featured desserts was a cheesecake with a big number ten on it, commemorating my decade in Barcelona. (How long is Noah going to milk this? - You. No more after this, I promise. Probably.)
"Speech! Speech!" came the cries. "Tell us ten things you've learned in ten years."
Fortunately, attention spans had been shortened by booze and everyone was easily distracted by the cheesecake itself. As well as ice cream and brownies, all of which were far more interesting than my ramblings would have been.
However, I have now gone for over twenty four hours without dessert so I'm ready to present my list. If you should happen to have cheesecake or brownies or ice cream at hand, stop reading this and start eating. I guarantee it will be much more rewarding.
For all you poor dessertless folk remaining, I give you the ten things I've learned:

1. First and foremost, beware a British barbecue on Sunday. While I love the grilled flesh of beasts and the alcohol it comes with, if your host and/or most of the guests hail from that foggy island off the coast of France, think long and hard before you engage in a midday meal with them on Jesus' day, for they are not like us. Your Monday will thank you, as you will at the very least avoid beginning the week with a dry mouth and a headache, and at most, save yourself from getting lost on a bicycle in countryside vineyards after dark, forcing you to careen blindly along dirt paths until you find a kindly rural drug dealer who is willing to put you up until the first train can take you back to the city next morning.

2. I really love the beach. If you follow me on Instagram (noahdjgreen) you know I love the seaside the way people love cats and food. Floating suspended in warm salt water watching the shore makes all my troubles just slip away. It's easily the number one reason I'm still here.

3. Spanish. I thought I spoke it before I arrived. I didn't. My first apartment was full of Argentinians who spoke no English. On my first day there, I sat on the corner of my tiny bed in my tiny room contemplating the huge mistake I'd made. However, not wanting to be the creepy roommate who spent all his time in his bedroom (that came later) I ventured into the living room and desperately tried to follow the conversation. It took several exhausting months, but it got easier. Eventually, having a Spanish girlfriend helped. Especially with the slang.

4. Catalan. It's the other language. Didn't even know what it was before I arrived, and now I speak it like a New York taxi driver speaks English. That counts as learning, right?

5. Everything is late. Try eating lunch before 1.30 or dinner before 8.30. Enjoy your McDonald's, cuz that's what'll be open. I pulled more all-nighters as a teacher in my 30's than as a musician in my 20's.  I recently went to a movie, dinner and drinks with friends, but didn't call it going out because I was home by 1.30 in the morning.

6. Racism. Coming from the States, you'd think I would have this one covered, but when you get to a country where the locals call Arabs Moors (while wearing keffiyehs), label convenience stores Pakis, and hate South Americans more than the Tea Party does, you realise you're playing in a different league. Generalisations and dismissals of entire ethnic groups are the norm. It's a thoroughly pre-PC society where speaking English badly is speaking like an Indian and racist jokes/skits/theme parties are hilarious. Olé.


7. Corruption. In a country where rules are treated like suggestions, I guess it's not surprising that entire local governments get hauled off to jail for illegal land permits, regional politicians are found with trunkfuls of cash, the president gets paid under the table with embezzled funds and the royal family sets up shady deals with questionable regimes.

8. It ain't a party till you start a fire, endanger some kids and torture an animal. All Spanish celebrations include at least one of those activities. Whether it's building a giant statue and burning it down, or parading through the streets dressed as a fire breathing dragon (fire included) something's gotta burn. Next, line up your newborns so the village demon can long-jump them, or send your toddlers to the top of a teetering human tower. But don't worry, they're wearing a helmet. (Not the newborns, cuz fuck 'em.) Finally, throw a goat from a church tower or play piñata with a hanging duck. Catalunya banned bullfighting and will thus claim moral superiority, but they will still set a bull's horns on fire and chase it into the sea. For real.

9. Dancing is hard. I wish I could say I'd learned to swing dance, but after six months of class, I've picked up just enough to embarrass myself with strangers, apologising profusely as I sweat all over them while stepping on their toes and twisting their arms against their natural articulations.

10. The Wire is the best show on TV ever. Not related to Barcelona in any way, but I watched it while living here.

Decade two, day one

How fast does ten years go? Pretty fucking fast!
I had punctuality beaten into me as a child. (Not actually beaten. I'm not accusing you of anything, mom.) So engrained in me is it that after all this time in Spain, a country where even Christmas is celebrated two weeks late, I cannot help but show up on time for things, knowing that I will inevitably be waiting for others. I always explain to the chronically late that time inexorably goes by at the rate of one minute per minute, but now I'm not so sure.
I mean, it doesn't seem that long ago that I stepped off the airplane, suitcase in hand, into a city I had never visited where I knew nobody and barely spoke the language with the vague idea of checking it out. I blinked and a decade had passed.
I woke up yesterday well rested for the first time in a week. I had spent a long weekend eating and drinking my way across southern Spain, getting up early to catch various modes of transportation or to visit some culturally relevant building (the latter to justify all the eating and drinking.) Prior to that, I had suffered a four night bout of insomnia that kept me staring at the walls and dreading the innocuous melody of my alarm. But yesterday I opened my eyes after a full eight hours of blissful sleep to begin my day, which consisted of classes with adults and children in companies and homes around Barcelona. One student, a 40 year old engineer, is leaving for Qatar next week, so we concluded our class with a relaxing cup of cafe con leche in the restaurant across the street from his office. After a year and a half of classes together, we have something approaching a friendship, or at least a cordial professional relationship, sharing personal anecdotes (and the twenty-first century equivalent thereof - funny youtube clips.)(Speaking of which, everybody on Facebook posted the Jimmy Fallon/Justin Timberlake hashtag skit, so I watched it and chuckled. #insertobvioushashtagjokehere)
In the evening, I dropped by a friend's house to borrow an amp, so that I may annoy my neighbours as I experiment with my keyboard. Les Fat Jones continues to be the most productive, best kept secret, as we jam regularly, write songs frequently and play shows hardly ever. We keep promising ourselves that will change. I also keep promising myself to get back to running in the mornings, and you will notice that wasn't included in this super fascinating glimpse into my schedule.
For dinner I had some curry and wine, and went to bed.
That was my day, the first day of my second decade here.
Despite myself, I have become a settled, semi-responsible adult. It wasn't really the plan. When I left New York, people said moving here was brave. To me, it felt like the opposite. I was running away from the end of my twenties, from the end of life as a rock star, from the reality of finding a job or going back to school, of living a normal life, something I had studiously avoided up to then. Yet here I am, with a job, living with my girlfriend in a nice apartment in a cool neighbourhood around the corner from my family and friends with whom I get together, drink too much and laugh about bullshit. It's awesome. Let's see what happens in the next ten years.
Just don't blink.